ESTHER    WATERS 


A  NOVEL 


BY 

GEORGE  MOORE 


NEW  YORK 
BRENTANO'S 

1917 


e 


COPYRIGHT,       1899,       BY 
HERBERT  S.  STONE  &  CO. 

COPYRIGHT,       I917,       BY 
BRENTANO'S 

ALL     RIGHTS     RESERVED 


PREFACE 


The  proofs  of  the  first  edition  of  '*  Esther  Waters" 
were  sent  to  three  leading  American  publishers.  The 
book  was  declined  by  all  three,  and  it  was  published 
without  the  American  copyright  having  been  secured. 
As  soon  as  it  became  apparent  that  ** Esther  Waters" 
had  obtained  the  approval  and  support  of  the  public, 
the  publishers  who  had  refused  it,  came  forward 
either  with  proposals  to  issue  an  authorized,  but  non- 
copyright  edition  in  the  States,  or  with  proposals  to 
publish  my  next  book.  This  story  is  not  told  in  order 
to  show  that  publishers  are  not  capable  of  distinguish- 
ing a  book  that  is  worth  publishing  when  it  is  sub- 
mitted to  them,  but  with  the  object  of  calling  attention 
to  a  vice  inherent  in  the  publishing  trade.  In  the 
course  of  their  complex  business,  publishers  are  led 
into  the  error  of  indulging  in  abstract  speculations 
regarding  the  moral  point  of  view  of  their  customers. 
The  three  publishers  in  question  were  not  in  the  least 
uncertain  what  they  thought  about  "Esther  Waters"; 
to  them  it  was  a  most  moral  and  edifying  book ;  but 
they  were  not  sure  that  "the  general  reader"  would 
think  well  of  a  book  containing  a  description  of  a 
lying-in  hospital.  The  same  uncertainty  harassed  the 
publishing  mind  regarding  ' '  Evelyn  Innes, ' '  not  what 
it  thought,  but  what  the  neighbours  would  think  of 
"Evelyn  Innes"  ;  and  a  gentleman  of  leisure  connected 


VI  PREFACE 

with  the  publication  of  this  book,  having  qualms 
regarding  certain  passages,  employed  his  leisure  in 
marking  the  passages  to  which  he  himself  took  no 
exception,  but  to  which  he  thought  other  people  would 
take  exception.  My  wonderment  increased  as  I 
turned  over  the  pages  of  the  marked  copy  which  he 
submitted  to  me.  I  do  not  propose  to  furnish  here  a 
list  of  the  absurdities  into  which  an  intelligent  man 
had  been  betrayed.  One  instance  will  suffice.  Find- 
ing the  following  passage  struck  out — '*In  her  stage 
life  she  was  an  agent  of  the  sensual  passion,  not  only 
with  her  voice,  but  with  her  arms,  her  neck  and  hair, 
and  every  expression  of  her  face,  and  it  was  the  crav- 
ing of  the  music  that  had  thrown  her  into  Ulick's  arms. 
If  it  had  subjugated  her,  how  much  more  would  it 
subjugate  and  hold  within  its  sensual  persuasion  the 
ignorant  listener — the  listener  who  perceived  in  the 
music  nothing  but  its  sensuality!" — I  said,  '*But  for 
what  reason  do  you  suggest  the  elimination  of  this 
passage?  This  is  the  Puritan  point  of  view.  I 
thought  that  your  proposal  was  to  draw  my  attention 
to  the  passages  which  you  thought  Puritans  would 
object  to."  "Ah,"  he  said,  "that  was  how  I  began, 
but  as  I  got  on  with  the  work,  I  thought  it  better  to 
mark  every  passage  that  might  give  offence. "  "And 
to  whom,"  I  said,  "could  this  passage  give  offence? 
Certainly  not  to  any  religious  body."  "No,"  he 
answered,  "not  to  any  religious  body,  but  it  would 
give  offence  to  the  subscribers  of  the  new  opera  house. 
If  parents  read  that  the  music  of  'Tristan'  threw 
Evelyn  into  the  arms  of  Ulick,  they  would  not  care  to 
take  their  daughters  to  hear  this  opera,  and  might 
possibly  discontinue  their  subscriptions. ' ' 


PREFACE  vii 

Folly,  of  course,  can  go  no  further,  but  though 
extravagant,  this  anecdote  is  characteristic  and 
typical  of  the  mistake  into  which  every  one  falls  when 
he  seeks  the  truth  in  his  casual  experience  instead  of 
in  his  own  heart.  If  the  book  does  not  shock  the 
moral  sense  of  the  publisher  it  is  certain  that  it  will 
not  shock  the  moral  sense  of  his  customers,  and  this 
rule  is  not  limited  to  England,  it  applies  equally  to 
America. 

The  loss  of  copyright  is  not  only  a  pecuniary  but  a 
moral  loss.  A  non-copyright  book  is  issued  by  so 
many  different  firms  that  it  brings  neither  profit  nor 
credit  to  any  one.  It  is  printed  and  published  any- 
how, it  is  flung  upon  the  market,  it  is  the  mere  dust 
of  the  ways,  in  the  control  of  no  one,  it  passes  beyond 
hope  of  redemption  from  numberless  errors;  and,  if 
the  author  should  wish  to  introduce  corrections  into 
the  work,  he  finds  it  almost  impossible  to  do  so  owing 
ro  the  number  of  different  editions. 

The  publication  in  England  of  a  sixpenny  edition  of 
my  "Esther  Waters"  obliged  me  to  read  the  book.  I 
read  it  for  the  first  time  at  the  beginning  of  this  year. 
We  do  not  read  until  the  fermentation  of  composition 
has  entirely  ceased,  until  time  has  detached  us  from 
the  subject,  and  the  composition  of  the  original  text 
had  been  achieved  upon  the  proof-sheets.  Corrections 
to  the  extent  of  several  thousand  words  each  were 
added  to  or  subtracted  from  the  text  up  to  the  time 
of  going  to  press.  But  this  method  of  composition, 
the  reconstruction  of  a  book  upon  the  proof-sheets, 
however  inseparable  from  certain  literary  tempera- 
ments, is  not  conducive  to  finish  of  detail ;  and  on 
reading  the  book,  its  general  proportions,  its  architec- 


Vlll  PREFACE 

ture,  seemed  to  me  superior  to  the  mere  writing;  the 
carving  of  door  and  window,  I  recognised  in  many 
places  as  being  summary  and  preparatory,  and  it  was 
love's  labour  to  try  to  finish  what  I  had  left  unfin- 
ished. 

In  venturing  to  alter  published  text  I  have  followed 
the  practice  of  Shakespeare,  Goethe,  Wagner,  Balzac, 
Wordsworth,  Fitzgerald  and  my  friend  W.  B. 
Yeates.  It  would  perhaps  be  presumptuous  to  refer 
to  these  revisions  were  it  not  that  it  is  these  very 
revisions  that  in  a  measure  rescue  my  book  from  the 
chaos  of  cheap  publications.  I  dare  not  point  to  any 
particular  passage  in  which  I  think  a  real  improve- 
ment has  been  effected ;  outside  of  this  study  it  would 
be  immodest  to  exhibit  side  by  side  the  original  with 
the  amended  version,  but  I  can  say  without  laying 
myself  open  to  obloquy  that  I  believe  this  version  will 
be  found  by  any  reader  of  aesthetic  instinct  to  be 
superior  to  the  original  text,  and  I  will  ask  my  readers 
in  America  to  read  this  edition  in  preference  to  any 
other.  If  it  be  inappropriate  for  me  to  take  the  pub- 
lic into  my  confidence  regarding  the  exact  value  I 
place  upon  the  revised  passages,  it  will  be  still  more 
inappropriate  to  relate  the  pleasures  and  disappoint- 
ments I  experienced  in  reading  my  book.  But  even 
on  this  point,  perhaps,  I  may  venture  a  word,  for  mis- 
conceptions regarding  the  intention  of  my  book  have 
"arisen.  It  was  assumed  that  its  object  was  to  agitate 
^for  the  passing  of  a  law  to  put  down  betting.  The 
^teaching  of  "Esther  Waters"  is  as  little  combative  as 
that  of  the  Beatitudes.  Betting  may  be  an  evil,  but 
what  is  evil  is  always  uncertain,  whereas,  there  can  be 
no  question  that  to  refrain  from  judging  others,^  frqm^ 


PREFACE  IX 

despising  the   poor  in    spirit  and  those  who    do  not  | 
possess  the  wealth  of    this  world,  is  certain    virtue. 
That  all  things  that  live  are  to  be  pitied  is  the  lesson 
that""!  learnt  from  reading  ''Esther  Waters,"  and  that.^ 
others  may  learn  as  much  is  my  hope.  [ 


nj 


Esther  Waters 


She  stood  on  the   platform  watching  the  receding 
train.     A  few  bushes  hid  the  curve  of  the  line;   tt 
white  vapour  rose  above  them,  evaporating  in  the  pal 
evening.     A  moment  more  and  the  last  carriage  won' 
pass  out  of  sight.      The  white  gates  swung  forwa?    ' 
slowly  and  closed  over  the  line. 

An  oblong  box  painted  reddish  brown  and  tied  '^ 
a  rough  rope  lay  on  the  seat  beside  her.     The  mc  .  . 
ment  of  her  back  and  shoulders  showed  that  the  bur 
die  she  carried  was  a  heavy  one,  the  sharp  bulging  of 
the  grey  linen  cloth  that  the  weight  was  dead.     She 
wore  a  faded  yellow  dress  and  a  black  jacket  too  warm 
for  the  day.     A  girl  of  twenty,  short,  strongly  built, 
with  short,  strong  arms.     Her  neck  was  plump,  and 
her   hair    of    so    ordinary   a    brown    that    it    passed.^ 
unnoticed.     The  nose  was  too  thick,  but  the  nostrils  \ 
were  well   formed.     The  eyes  were  grey,  luminous, 
and  veiled  with  dark  lashes.     But  it  was  only  when  she 
laughed   that  her    face  lost   its  habitual    expression,  -^^^^^ 
which  was  somewhat  sullen ;  then  it  flowed  with  bright      ^P 
humour.     She  laughed  now,  showing  a  white  line  of 
almpiid-shaped  teeth,     The  porter  had  asked  her  if  she 


I 


2  EST  HER    WATERS 

were  afraid  to  leave  her  bundle  with  her  box.  Both, 
he  said,  would  go  up  together  in  the  donkey-cart. 
The  donkey-cart  came  down  every  evening  to  fetch 
parcels.  .  .  .  That  was  the  way  to  Woodview, 
right  up  the  lane.  She  could  not  miss  it.  She  would 
find  the  lodge  gate  in  that  clump  of  trees.  The  man 
lingered,  for  she  was  an  attractive  girl,  but  the  station- 
master  called  him  away  to  remove  some  luggage. 

It  was  a  barren  country.  Once  the  sea  had  crawled 
at  high  tide  half-way  up  the  sloping  sides  of  those 
downs.  It  would  do  so  now  were  it  not  for  the  shingle 
bank  which  its  surging  had  thrown  up  along  the  coast. 
Between  the  shingle  bank  and  the  shore  a  weedy  river 
flowed  and  the  little  town  stood  clamped  together,  its 
feet  in  the  water's  edge.  There  were  decaying  ship- 
yards about  the  harbour,  and  wooden  breakwaters 
stretched  long,  thin  arms  seawards  for  ships  that  did 
not  come.  On  the  other  side  of  the  railway  apple  blos- 
soms showed  above  a  white-washed  wall ;  some  market 
gardening  was  done  in  the  low-lying  fields,  whence  the 
downs  rose  in  gradual  ascents.  On  the  first  slope 
there  was  a  fringe  of  trees.     That  was  Woodview. 

The  girl  gazed  on  this  bleak  country  like  one  who 
saw  it  for  the  first  time.  She  saw  without  perceiving, 
for  her  mind  was  occupied  with  personal  consideration. 
She  found  it  difficult  to  decide  whether  she  should 
leave  her  bundle  with  her  box.  It  hung  heavy  in  her 
hand,  and  she  did  not  know  how  far  Woodview  was 
from  the  station.  At  the  end  of  the  platform  the  sta- 
tion-master took  her  ticket,  and  she  passed  over  the 
level-ci:ossing  still  undecided.  The  lane  began  with 
iron  railings,  laurels,  and  French  windows.  She  had 
been  in  service  in  such  houses,  and  knew  if  she  were 


ESTHER     WATERS  3 

engaged  in  any  of  them  what  her  duties  would  be. 
But  the  life  in  Woodview  was  a  great  dream,  and  she 
could  not  imagine  herself  accomplishing  all  that  w^ould 
be  required  of  her.  There  would  be  a  butler,  a  foot- 
man, and  a  page ;  she  would  not  mind  the  page — but 
the  butler  and  footman,  what  would  they  think? 
There  would  be  an  upper-housemaid  and  an  under- 
housemaid,  and  perhaps  a  lady's-maid,  and  maybe  that 
these  ladies  had  been  abroad  with  the  family.  She 
had  heard  of  France  and  Germany.  Their  conversa- 
tion would,  no  doubt,  turn  on  such  subjects.  Her  si- 
lence would  betray  her.  They  would  ask  her  what 
situations  she  had  been  in,  and  when  they  learned  the 
truth  she  would  have  to  leave  disgraced.  She  had  not 
sufficient  money  to  pay  for  a  ticket  to  London.  But 
what  excuse  could  she  give  to  Lady  Elwin,  who  had 
rescued  her  from  Mrs.  Dunbar  and  got  her  the  place 
of  kitchen-maid  at  Woodview?  She  must  not  go  back. 
Her  father  would  curse  her,  and  perhaps  beat  her 
mother  and  her  too.  Ah!  he  would  not  dare  to  strike 
her  again,  and  the  girl's  face  flushed  with  shameful 
remembrance.  And  her  little  brothers  and  sisters 
would  cry  if  she  came  back.  They  had  little  enough 
to  eat  as  it  was.  Of  course  she  must  not  go  back. 
How  silly  of  her  to  think  of  such  a  thing! 

She  smiled,  and  her  face  became  as  bright  as  the 
month :  it  was  the  first  day  of  June.  Still  she  would 
be  glad  when  the  first  week  was  over.  If  she  had  only 
a  dress  to  wear  in  the  afternoons!  The  old  yellow 
thing  on  her  back  would  never  do.  But  one  of  her 
cotton  prints  was  pretty  fresh ;  she  must  get  a  bit  of 
red  ribbon — that  would  make  a  difference.  She  had 
heard  that  the  housemaids  in  places  like  Woodview 


4  ESTHER    WATERS 

always  changed  their  dresses  twice  a  day,  and  on  Sun- 
days went  out  in  silk  mantles  and  hats  in  the  newest 
fashion.  As  for  the  lady's-maid,  she  of  course  had  all 
her  mistress's  clothes,  and  walked  with  the  butler. 
What  would  such  people  think  of  a  little  girl  like  her ! 
Her  heart  sank  at  the  thought,  and  she  sighed,  antici- 
pating much  bitterness  and  disappointment.  Even 
when  her  first  quarter's  wages  came  due  she  would 
hardly  be  able  to  buy  herself  a  dress :  they  would  want 
the  money  at  home.  Her  quarter's  wages!  A 
month's  wages  most  like,  for  she'd  never  be  able  to 
keep  the  place.  No  doubt  all  those  fields  belonged  to 
the  Squire,  and  those  great  trees  too;  they  must  be 
fine  folk,  quite  as  fine  as  Lady  Elwin — finer,  for  she 
lived  in  a  house  like  those  near  the  station. 

On  both  sides  of  the  straight  road  there  were  tall 
hedges,  and  the  nursemaids  lay  in  the  wide  shadows  on 
the  rich  summer  grass,  their  perambulators  at  a  little 
distance.  The  hum  of  the  town  died  out  of  the  ear, 
and  the  girl  continued  to  imagine  the  future  she  was 
about  to  enter  on  with  increasing  distinctness.  Look- 
ing across  the  fields  she  could  see  two  houses,  one  in 
grey  stone,  the  other  in  red  brick  with  a  gable  covered 
with  ivy;  and  between  them,  lost  in  the  north,  the 
spire  of  a  church.  On  questioning  a  passer-by  she 
learnt  that  the  first  house  was  the  Rectory,  the  second 
was  Woodview  Lodge.  If  that  was  the  lodge,  what 
must  the  house  be? 

Two  hundred  yards  further  on  the  road  branched, 
passing  on  either  side  of  a  triangular  clump  of  trees, 
entering  the  sea  road;  and  under  the  leaves  the  air  was 
green  and  pleasant,  and  the  lungs  of  the  jaded  town 
girl  drew  in  a  deep  breath  of  health.     Behind  the  plan- 


ESTHER    WATERS  5 

tation  she  found  a  large  white-painted  wooden  gate. 
It  opened  into  a  handsome  avenue,  and  the  gatekeeper 
told  her  to  keep  straight  on,  and  to  turn  to  the  left  when 
she  got  to  the  top.  She  had  never  seen  anything  like 
it  before,  and  stopped  to  admire  the  uncouth  arms  of 
elms,  like  rafters  above  the  roadway;  pink  clouds 
showed  through,  and  the  monotonous  dove  seemed  the 
very  heart  of  the  silence. 

Her  doubts  returned;  she  never  would  be  able  to 
keep  the  place.  The  avenue  turned  a  little,  and  she 
came  suddenly  upon  a  young  man  leaning  over  the 
paling,  smoking  his  pipe. 

"Please  sir,  is  this  the  way  to  Woodview?" 

"Yes,  right  up  through  the  stables,  round  to  the 
left."  Then,  noticing  the  sturdily-built  figure,  yet 
graceful  in  its  sturdiness,  and  the  bright  cheeks,  he 
said,  "You  look  pretty  well  done;  that  bundle  is  a 
heavy  one,  let  me  hold  it  for  you. ' ' 

"I  am  a  bit  tired,"  she  said,  leaning  the  bundle  on 
the  paling.  "They  told  me  at  the  station  that  the 
donkey-cart  would  bring  up  my  box  later  on." 

"Ah,  then  you  are  the  new  kitchen-maid?  What's 
your  name?" 

"Esther  Waters." 

"My  mother's  the  cook  here;  you'll  have  to  mind 
your  p's  and  q's  or  else  you'll  be  dropped  on.  The 
devil  of  a  temper  while  it  lasts,  but  not  a  bad  sort  if 
you  don't  put  her  out. " 

"Are  you  in  service  here?" 

"No,  but  I  hope  to  be  afore  long.  I  could  have 
been  two  years  ago,  but  mother  did  not  like  me  to  put 
on  livery,  and  I  don't  know  how  I'll  face  her  when  I 
come  running  down  to  go  out  with  the  carriage." 


6  ESTHER    WATERS 

"Is  the  place  vacant?"  Esther  asked,  raising  her  eyes 
timidly,  looking  at  him  sideways. 

"Yes,  Jim  Story  got  the  sack  about  a  week  ago. 
When  he  had  taken  a  drop  he'd  tell  every  blessed  thing 
that  was  done  in  the  stables.  They'd  get  him  down  to 
the  'Red  Lion'  for  the  purpose;  of  course  the  squire 
couldn't  stand  that." 

"And  shall  you  take  the  place?" 

"Yes.  I'm  not  going  to  spend  my  life  carrying  par- 
cels up  and  down  the  King's  Road,  Brighton,  if  I  can 
squeeze  in  here.  It  isn't  so  much  the  berth  that  I  care 
about,  but  the  advantages,  information  fresh  from  the 
fountain-head.  You  won't  catch  me  chattering  over 
the  bar  at  the  *Red  Lion*  and  having  every  blessed 
word  I  say  wired  up  to  London  and  printed  next  morn- 
ing in  all  the  papers." 

Esther  wondered  what  he  was  talking  about,  and, 
looking  at  him,  she  saw  a  low,  narrow  forehead,  a 
small,  round  head,  a  long  nose,  a  pointed  chin,  and 
rather  hollow,  bloodless  cheeks.  Notwithstanding  the 
shallow  chest,  he  was  powerfully  built,  the  long  arms 
could  deal  a  swinging  blow.  The  low  forehead  and 
the  lustreless  eyes  told  of  a  slight,  unimaginative 
brain,  but  regular  features  and  a  look  of  natural  hon- 
esty made  William  Latch  a  man  that  ten  men  and 
eighteen  women  out  of  twenty  would  like. 

"I  see  you  have  got  books  in  that  bundle,"  he  said 
at  the  end  of  a  long  silence.     "Fond  of  readin'?" 

"They  are  mother's  books,"  she  replied,  hastily. 
"I  was  afraid  to  leave  them  at  the  station,  for  it  would 
be  easy  for  anyone  to  take  one  out,  and  I  should  not 
miss  it  until  I  undid  the  bundle. " 

"Sarah  Tucker — that's  the  upper-housemaid — will  be 


ESTHER     WATERS  7 

after  you  to  lend  them  to  her.  She  is  a  wonderful 
reader.  She  has  read  every  story  that  has  come  out  in 
Bozj  Bells  for  the  last  three  years,  and  you  can't  puzzle 
her,  try  as  you  will.  She  knows  all  the  names,  can 
tell  you  which  lord  it  was  that  saved  the  girl  from  the 
carriage  when  the  'osses  were  tearing  like  mad  towards 
a  precipice  a  'undred  feet  deep,  and  all  about  the  baro- 
net for  whose  sake  the  girl  went  out  to  drown  herself 
in  the  moonlight.  I  'aven't  read  the  books  mesel',  but 
Sarah  and  me  are  great  pals." 

Esther  trembled  lest  he  might  ask  her  again  if  she 
were  fond  of  reading;  she  could  not  read.  Noticing  a 
change  in  the  expression  of  her  face,  he  concluded  that 
she  was  disappointed  to  hear  that  he  liked  Sarah  and 
regretted  his  indiscretion. 

"Good  friends,  you  know — no  more.  Sarah  and  me 
never  hit  it  off;  she  will  worry  me  with  the  stories  she 
reads.  I  don't  know  what  is  your  taste,  but  I  likes 
something  more  practical ;  the  little  *oss  in  there,  he  is 
more  to  my  taste. ' '  Fearing  he  might  speak  again  of 
her  books,  she  mustered  up  courage  and  said — 

"They  told  me  at  the  station  that  the  donkey-cart 
would  bring  up  my  box. ' ' 

"The  donkey-cart  isn't  going  to  the  station  to-night 
— you'll  want  your  things,  to  be  sure.  I'll  see  the 
coachman ;  perhaps  he  is  going  down  with  the  trap. 
But,  golly !  it  has  gone  the  half -hour.  I  shall  catch  it 
for  keeping  you  talking,  and  my  mother  has  been 
expecting  you  for  the  last  hour.  She  hasn't  a  soul  to 
help  her,  and  six  people  coming  to  dinner.  You  must 
say  the  train  was  late." 

"Let  us  go,  then,"  cried  Esther.  "Will  you  show 
me  the  way?" 


8  ESTHER    WATERS 

Over  the  iron  gate  which  opened  into  the  pleasure- 
ground,  thick  branches  of  evergreen  oaks  made  an  arch 
of  foliage,  and  between  the  trees  a  glimpse  was  caught 
of  the  angles  and  urns  of  an  Italian  house — distant 
about  a  hundred  yards.  A  high  brick  wall  separated 
the  pleasure-ground  from  the  stables,  and  as  William 
and  Esther  turned  to  the  left  and  walked  up  the  road- 
way he  explained  that  the  numerous  buildings  were 
stables.  They  passed  by  many  doors,  hearing  the 
trampling  of  horses  and  the  rattling  of  chains.  Then 
the  roadway  opened  into  a  handsome  yard  overlooked 
by  the  house,  the  back  premises  of  which  had  been 
lately  rebuilt  in  red  brick.  There  were  gables  and 
ornamental  porches,  and  through  the  large  kitchen 
windows  the  servants  were  seen  passing  to  and  fro. 
At  the  top  of  this  yard  was  a  gate.  It  led  into  the 
park,  and,  like  the  other  gate,  was  overhung  by 
bunched  evergreens.  A  string  of  horses  came  towards 
this  gate,  and  William  ran  to  open  it.  The  horses 
were  clothed  in  grey  cloth.  They  wore  hoods,  and 
Esther  noticed  the  black  round  eyes  looking  through 
the  eyelet  holes.  They  were  ridden  by  small,  ugly 
boys,  who  swung  their  little  legs,  and  struck  them  with 
ash  plants  when  they  reached  their  heads  forward 
chawing  at  the  bits.  When  William  returned  he  said, 
"Look  there,  the  third  one;  that's  he— that's  Silver 
Braid." 

An  impatient  knocking  at  the  kitchen  window  inter- 
rupted his  admiration,  and  William,  turning  quickly, 
said,  "Mind  you  say  the  train  was  late;  don't  say  I 
kept  you,  or  you'll  get  me  into  the  devil  of  a  pickle. 
This  way."  The  door  let  into  a  wide  passage  covered 
with   cocoanut  matting.      They    walked   a   few  yards; 


ESTHER     WATERS  9 

the  kitchen  was  the  first  door,  and  the  handsome  room 
she  found  herself  in  did  not  conform  to  anything  that 
Esther  had  seen  or  heard  of  kitchens.  The  range 
almost  filled  one  end  of  the  room,  and  on  it  a  dozen 
saucepans  were  simmering ;  the  dresser  reached  to  the 
ceiling,  and  was  covered  with  a  multitude  of  plates  and 
dishes.  Esther  thought  how  she  must  strive  to  keep 
it  in  its  present  beautiful  condition,  and  the  elegant 
white-capped  servants  passing  round  the  white  table 
made  her  feel  her  own  insignificance. 

'*This  is  the  new  kitchen-maid,  mother." 
**Ah,  is  it  indeed?"  said  Mrs.  Latch,  looking  up  from 
the  tray  of  tartlets  which  she  had  taken  from  the  oven 
and  was  filling  with  jam.  Esther  noticed  the  likeness 
that  Mrs.  Latch  bore  to  her  son.  The  hair  was  iron 
grey,  and,  as  in  William's  face,  the  nose  was  the  most 
prominent  feature. 

'*I  suppose  you'll  tell  me  the  train  was  late?" 
**Yes,  mother,  the  train  was  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
late,"  William  chimed  in. 

"I  didn't  ask  you,  you  idle,  lazy,  good-for-nothing 
vagabond.  I  suppose  it  was  you  who  kept  the  girl  all 
this  time.  Six  people  coming  to  dinner,  and  I've  been 
the  whole  day  without  a  kitchen-maid.  If  Margaret 
Gale  hadn't  come  down  to  help  me,  I  don't  know 
where  we  should  be;  as  it  is,  the  dinner  will  be  late." 
The  two  housemaids,  both  in  print  dresses,  stood 
listening.  Esther's  face  clouded,  and  when  Mrs. 
Latch  told  her  to  take  her  things  off  and  set  to  and  pre- 
pare the  vegetables,  so  that  she  might  see  what  she  was 
made  of,  Esther  did  not  answer  at  once.  She  turned 
away,  saying  under  her  breath,  "I  must  change  my 
dress,  and  ray  box  has  not  come  up  from  the  station  yet. " 


lo  ESTHER     WATERS 

"You  can  tuck  your  dress  up,  and  Margaret  Gale 
will  lend  you  her  apron.** 

Esther  hesitated. 

"What  you've  got  on  don*t  look  as  if  it  could  come 
to  much  damage.     Come,  now,  set  to." 

The  housemaids  burst  into  loud  laughter,  and  then 
a  sullen  look  of  dogged  obstinacy  passed  over  and  set- 
tled on  Esther's  face,  even  to  the  point  of  visibly 
darkening  the  white  and  rose  complexion, 


n. 


A  sloping  roof  formed  one  end  of  the  room,  and 
through  a  broad,  single  pane  the  early  sunlight  fell 
across  a  wall  papered  with  blue  and  white  flowers. 
Print  dresses  hung  over  the  door.  On  the  wall  were 
two  pictures — a  girl  with  a  basket  of  flowers,  the 
coloured  supplement  of  an  illustrated  newspaper,  and 
an  old  and  dilapidated  last  century  print.  On  the 
chimney-piece  there  were  photographs  of  the  Gale 
family  in  Sunday  clothes,  and  the  green  vases  that 
Sarah  had  given  Margaret  on  her  birthday. 

And  in  a  low,  narrow  iron  bed,  pushed  close  against 
the  wall  in  the  full  glare  of  the  sunlight,  Esther  lay 
staring  half-awake,  her  eyes  open  but  still  dim  with 
dreams.  She  looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  not  yet  time 
to  get  up,  and  she  raised  her  arms  as  if  to  cross  them 
behind  her  head,  but  a  sudden  remembrance  of  yester- 
day arrested  the  movement,  and  a  sudden  shadow 
settled  on  her  face.  She  had  refused  to  prepare  the 
vegetables.  She  hadn't  answered,  and  the  cook  had 
turned  her  out  of  the  kitchen.  She  had  rushed  from 
the  house  under  the  momentary  sway  of  hope  that 
she  might  succeed  in  walking  back  to  London;  but 
William  had  overtaken  her  in  the  avenue,  he  had  ex- 
postulated with  her,  he  had  refused  to  allow  her  to 
pass.  She  had  striven  to  tear  herself  from  him,  and, 
failing,  had  burst  into  tears.  However,  he  had  been 
kind,  and  at  last  she  had  allowed  him  to  lead  her  back, 

It 


12  ESTHER     WATERS 

and  all  the  time  he  had  filled  her  ears  with  assurances 
that  he  would  make  it  all  right  with  his  mother.  But 
Mrs.  Latch  had  closed  her  kitchen  against  her,  and 
she  had  had  to  go  to  her  room.  Even  if  they  paid 
her  fare  back  to  London,  how  was  she  to  face  her 
mother?  What  would  father  say?  He  would  drive 
her  from  the  house.  But  she  had  done  nothing  wrong. 
Why  did  cook  insult  her? 

As  she  pulled  on  her  stockings  she  stopped  and  won- 
dered if  she  should  awake  Margaret  Gale.  Margaret's 
bed  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  obliquely  falling  wall ; 
and  she  lay  heavily,  one  arm  thrown  forward,  her 
short,  square  face  raised  to  the  light.  She  slept  so 
deeply  that  for  a  moment  Esther  felt  afraid.  Suddenly 
the  eyes  opened,  and  Margaret  looked  at  her  vaguely, 
as  if  out  of  eternity.  Raising  her  hands  to  her  eyes 
she  said — 

"What  time  is  it?" 

**It  has  just  gone  six." 

**Then  there'splenty  of  time;  we  needn't  be  down  be- 
fore seven.  You  get  on  with  your  dressing;  there's  no 
use  my  getting  up  till  you  are  done — we'd  be  tumbling 
over  each  other.  This  is  no  room  to  put  two  girls  to 
sleep  in — one  glass  not  much  bigger  than  your  hand. 
You'll  have  to  get  your  box  under  your  bed.  .  .  . 
In  my  last  place  I  had  a  beautiful  room  with  a  Brussels 
carpet,  and  a  marble  washstand.     I  wouldn't  stay  here 

three  days  if   it  weren't "     The  girl  laughed  and 

turned  lazily  over. 

Esther  did  not  answer. 

"Now,  isn't  it  a  grubby  little  room  to  put  two  girls 
to  sleep  in?     What  was  your  last  place  like?" 

Esther  answered  that  she  had  hardly  been  in  service 


ESTHER    WATERS  13 

before.     Margaret  was  too  much  engrossed  in  her  own 
thoughts  to  notice  the  curtness  of  the  answer. 

"There's  only  one  thing  to  be  said  for  Woodview, 
and  that  is  the  eating ;  we  have  everything  we  want, 
and  we'd  have  more  than  we  want  if  it  weren't  for  the 
old  cook :  she  must  have  her  little  bit  out  of  everything, 
and  she  cuts  us  short  in  our  bacon  in  the  morning. 
But  that  reminds  me !  You  have  set  the  cook  against 
you;  you'll  have  to  bring  her  over  to  your  side  if  you 
want  to  remain  here." 

"Why  should  I  be  asked  to  wash  up  the  moment  I 
came  in  the  house,  before  even  I  had  time  to  change 
my  dress." 

"It  was  hard  on  you.  She  always  gets  as  much  as 
she  can  out  of  her  kitchen-maid.  But  last  night  she 
was  pressed,  there  was  company  to  dinner.  I'd  have 
lent  you  an  apron,  and  the  dress  you  had  on  wasn't  of 
much  account." 

"It  isn't  because  a  girl  is  poor '* 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that;  I  know  well  enough  what 
it  is  to  be  hard  up. "  Margaret  clasped  her  stays  across 
her  plump  figure  and  walked  to  the  door  for  her  dress. 
She  was  a  pretty  girl,  with  a  snub  nose  and  large, 
clear  eyes.  Her  hair  was  lighter  in  tone  than  Esther's, 
and  she  had  brushed  it  from  her  forehead  so  as  to 
obviate  the  defect  of  her  face,  which  was  too  short. 

Esther  was  on  her  knees  saying  her  prayers  when 
Margaret  turned  to  the  light  to  button  her  boots. 

"Well,  I  never!"  she  exclaimed.  "Do  you  think 
prayers  any  good?" 

Esther  looked  up  angrily. 

"I  don't  want  to  say  anything  against  saying 
prayers,  but  I  wouldn't   before   the   others   if  I  was 


14  ESTHER    WATERS 

you— they'll  chaff  dreadful,    and  call    you    Creeping 
Jesus." 

"Oh,  Margaret,  I  hope  they  won't  do  anything  so 
wicked.  But  I  am  afraid  I  shan't  be  long  here,  so  it 
doesn't  matter  what  they  think  of  me." 
-^  When  they  got  downstairs  they  opened  the  windows 
and  doors,  and  Margaret  took  Esther  round,  showing 
her  where  the  things  were  kept,  and  telling  her  for 
how  many  she  must  lay  the  table.  At  that  moment  a 
number  of  boys  and  men  came  clattering  up  the  pas- 
sage. They  cried  to  Esther  to  hurry  up,  declaring  that 
they  were  late.  Esther  did  not  know  who  they  were, 
but  she  served  them  as  best  she  might.  They  break- 
fasted hastily  and  rushed  away  to  the  stables ;  and  they 
had  not  been  long  gone  when  the  squire  and  his  son 
Arthur  appeared  in  the  yard.  The  Gaffer,  as  he  was 
called,  was  a  man  of  about  medium  height.  He  wore 
breeches  and  gaiters,  and  in  them  his  legs  seemed 
grotesquely  thick.  His  son  was  a  narrow-chested, 
undersized  young  man,  absurdly  thin  and  hatchet- 
faced.  He  was  also  in  breeches  and  gaiters,  and  to  his 
boots  were  attached  long-necked  spurs.  His  pale  yel- 
low hair  gave  him  a  somewhat  ludicrous  appearance, 
as  he  stood  talking  to  his  father,  but  the  moment  he 
prepared  to  get  into  the  saddle  he  seemed  quite  differ- 
ent. He  rode  a  beautiful  chestnut  horse,  a  little  too 
thin,  Esther  thought,  and  the  ugly  little  boys  were 
mounted  on  horses  equally  thin.  The  squire  rode  a 
stout  grey  cob,  and  he  watched  the  chestnut,  and  was 
also  interested  in  the  brown  horse  that  walked  with  its 
head  in  the  air,  pulling  at  the  smallest  of  all  the  boys, 
a  little  freckled,  red-headed  fellow. 

*' That's  Silver  Braid,  the  brown  horse,  the  one  that 


ESTHER     WATERS  15 

the  Demon  is  riding ;  the  chestnut  is  Bayleaf ,  Ginger 
is  riding  him:  he  won  the  City  and  Suburban.  Oh, 
we  did  have  a  fine  time  then,  for  we  all  had  a  bit  on. 
The  betting  was  twenty  to  one,  and  I  won  twelve  and 
six  pence.  Grover  won  thirty  shillings.  They  say 
that  John — that's  the  butler — won  a  little  fortune;  but 
he  is  so  close  no  one  knows  what  he  has  on.  Cook 
wouldn't  have  anything  on;  she  says  that  betting  is 
the  curse  of  servants — you  know  what  is  said,  that  it 
was  through  betting  that  Mrs.  Latch's  husband  got 
into  trouble.  He  was  steward  here,  you  know,  in  the 
late  squire's  time." 

Then  Margaret  told  all  she  had  heard  on  the  subject. 
The  late  Mr.  Latch  had  been  a  confidential  steward, 
and  large  sums  of  money  were  constantly  passing 
through  his  hands  for  which  he  was  never  asked  for 
any  exact  account.  Contrary  to  all  expectation, 
Marksman  was  beaten  for  the  Chester  Cup,  and  the 
squire's  property  was  placed  under  the  charge  of  a 
receiver.  Under  the  new  management  things  were 
gone  into  more  closely,  and  it  was  then  discovered  that 
Mr.  Latch's  accounts  were  incapable  of  satisfactory 
explanation.  The  defeat  of  Marksman  had  hit  Mr. 
Latch  as  hard  as  it  had  hit  the  squire,  and  to  pay  his 
debts  of  honour  he  had  to  take  from  the  money  placed 
in  his  charge,  confidently  hoping  to  return  it  in  a  few 
months.  The  squire's  misfortunes  anticipated  the 
realization  of  his  intentions ;  proceedings  were  threat- 
ened, but  were  withdrawn  when  Mrs.  Latch  came  for- 
ward with  all  her  savings  and  volunteered  to  forego 
her  wages  for  a  term  of  years.  Old  Latch  died  soon 
after,  some  lucky  bets  set  the  squire  on  his  legs  again, 
the  matter  was  half  forgotten,  and  in  the  next  genera- 


l6  ESTHER    WATERS 

tion  it  became  the  legend  of  the  Latch  family.  But  to 
Mrs.  Latch  it  was  an  incurable  grief,  and  to  remove 
her  son  from  influences  which,  in  her  opinion,  had 
caused  his  father's  death,  Mrs.  Latch  had  always 
refused  Mr.  Barfield's  offers  to  do  something  for  Wil- 
liam. It  was  against  her  will  that  he  had  been  taught 
to  ride ;  but  to  her  great  joy  he  soon  grew  out  of  all 
possibility  of  becoming  a  jockey.  She  had  then 
placed  him  in  an  ofhce  in  Brighton;  but  the  young 
man's  height  and  shape  marked  him  out  for  livery, 
and  Mrs.  Latch  was  pained  when  Mr.  Barfield  pro- 
posed it.  "Why  cannot  they  leave  me  my  son?"  she 
cried ;  for  it  seemed  to  her  that  in  that  hateful  cloth, 
buttons  and  cockade,  he  would  be  no  more  her  son, 
and  she  could  not  forget  w^hat  the  Latches  had  been 
long  ago. 

"I  believe  there's  going  to  be  a  trial  this  morning," 
said  Margaret;  "Silver  Braid  was  stripped — you 
noticed  that — and  Ginger  always  rides  in  the  trials. ' ' 

"I  don't  know  what  a  trial  is,"  said  Esther.  "They 
are  not  carriage-horses,  are  they?  They  look  too 
slight." 

"Carriage -horses,  you  ninny!  Where  have  you  been 
to  all  this  while — can't  you  see  that  they  are  race- 
horses?" 

Esther  hung  down  her  head  and  murmured  some- 
thing which  Margaret  didn't  catch. 

"To  tell  the  truth,  I  didn't  know  much  about  them 
when  I  came,  but  then  one  never  hears  anything  else 
here.  And  that  reminds  me — it  is  as  much  as  your 
place  is  worth  to  breathe  one  syllable  about  them 
horses;  you  must  know  nothing  when  you  are  asked. 
That's  what  Jim  Story  got  sacked  for — saying  in  the 


ESTHER     WATERS  i? 

'Red  Lion'  that  Valentine  pulled  up  lame.  We  don't 
know  how  it  came  to  the  Gaffer's  ears.  I  believe  that 
it  was  Mr.  Leopold  that  told ;  he  finds  out  everything. 
But  I  was  telling  you  how  I  learnt  about  the  race- 
horses. It  was  from  Jim  Stor}- — Jim  was  my  pal — 
Sarah  is  after  William,  you  know%  the  fellow  who 
brought  you  into  the  kitchen  last  night.  Jim  could 
never  talk  about  anything  but  the  'osses.  We'd  go 
every  night  and  sit  in  the  ^vood-shed,  that's  to  say  if  it 
was  wet;  if  it  was  fine  we'd  walk  in  the  drove-way. 
I'd  have  married  Jim,  I  know  I  should,  if  he  hadn't 
been  sent  away.  That's  the  worst  of  being  a  ser\^ant. 
They  sent  Jim  away  just  as  if  he  was  a  dog.  It  was 
wrong  of  him  to  say  the  horse  pulled  up  lame ;  I  admit 
that,  but  they  needn't  have  sent  him  away  as  they 
did." 

Esther  was  absorbed  in  the  consideration  of  her  own 
perilous  position.  Would  they  send  her  away  at  the 
end  of  the  w^eek,  or  that  very  afternoon?  Would  they 
give  her  a  week's  w^ages,  or  would  they  turn  her  out 
destitute  to  find  her  way  back  to  London  as  best  she 
might?  What  should  she  do  if  they  turned  her  out- 
of-doors  that  ver}^  afternoon?  Walk  back  to  London? 
She  did  not  know^  if  that  was  possible.  She  did  not 
know  how  far  she  had  come — a  long  distance,  no 
doubt.  She  had  seen  woods,  hills,  rivers,  and  towns 
flying  past.  Never  would  she  be  able  to  find  her  w^ay 
back  through  that  endless  country ;  besides,  she  could 
not  carry  her  box  on  her  back.  .  .  .  What  was  she 
to  do?  Not  a  friend,  not  a  penny  in  the  w^orld.  Oh,^- 
why  did  such  misfortune  fall  on  a  poor  little  girl  who 
had  never  harmed  anyone  in  the  world!  And  if  they  ■ 
did    give    her    her    fare    back — what    then?     .     .     . 


i8  ESTHER    WATERS 

Should  she  go  home?  ...  To  whom?  .  ,  , 
To  her  mother — to  her  poor  mother,  who  would  burst 
into  tears,  who  would  say,  "Oh,  my  poor  darling,  I 
don't  know  what  we  shall  do;  your  father  will  never 
let  you  stay  here." 

For  Mrs.  Latch  had  not  spoken  to  her  since  she  had 
come  into  the  kitchen,  and  it  seemed  to  Esther  that 
she  had  looked  round  with  the  air  of  one  anxious  to 
discover  something  that  might  serve  as  a  pretext  for 
blame.  She  had  told  Esther  to  make  haste  and  lay  the 
table  afresh.  Those  who  had  gone  were  the  stable 
folk,  and  breakfast  had  now  to  be  prepared  for  the 
other  servants.  The  person  in  the  dark  green  dress 
who  spoke  with  her  chin  in  the  air,  whose  nose  had 
been  pinched  to  purple  just  above  the  nostrils,  was 
Miss  Grover,  the  lady's-maid.  Grover  addressed  an 
occasional  remark  to  Sarah  Tucker,  a  tall  girl  with  a 
thin,  freckled  face  and  dark-red  hair.  The  butler, 
who  was  not  feeling  well,  did  not  appear  at  breakfast, 
and  Esther  was  sent  to  him  with  a  cup  of  tea. 

There  were  the  plates  to  wash  and  the  knives  to 
clean,  and  when  they  were  done  there  were  potatoes, 
cabbage,  onions  to  prepare,  saucepans  to  fill  with 
water,  coal  to  fetch  for  the  fire.  She  worked  steadily 
without  flagging,  fearful  of  Mrs.  Barfield,  who  would 
come  down,  no  doubt,  about  ten  o'clock  to  order  din- 
ner. The  race-horses  were  coming  through  the  pad- 
dock-gate; Margaret  called  to  Mr.  Randal,  a  little 
man,  wizen,  with  a  face  sallow  with  frequent  indiges- 
tions. 

"Well,  do  you  think  the  Gaffer's  satisfied?"  said 
Margaret.  John  made  no  articulate  reply,  but  he  mut- 
tered  something,    and   his    manner    showed    that   he 


ESTHER     WATERS  19 

strongly  deprecated  all  female  interest  in  racing ;  and 
when  Sarah  and  Grover  came  running  down  the 
passage  and  overwhelmed  him  with  questions,  crowd- 
ing round  him,  asking  both  together  if  Silver  Braid 
had  won  his  trial,  he  testily  pushed  them  aside,  declar- 
ing that  if  he  had  a  race-horse  he  \vould  not  have  a 
woman-servant  in  the  place.  .  .  .  "A  positive 
curse,   this  chatter,    chatter.      Won  his  trial,   indeed! 

What  business  had  a  lot  of  female  folk "     The  rest 

of  John's  sarcasm  was  lost  in  his  shirt  collar  as  he 
hurried  away  to  his  pantry,  closing  the  door  after  him. 

"What  a  testy  little  man  he  is!"  said  Sarah;  "he 
might  have  told  us  which  won.  He  has  known  the 
Gaffer  so  long  that  he  knows  the  moment  he  looks  at 
him  whether  the  gees  are  all  right. ' ' 

"One  can't  speak  to  a  chap  in  the  lane  that  he 
doesn't  know  all  about  it  next  day,"  said  Margaret. 
"Peggy  hates  him;  you  know  the  way  she  skulks 
about  the  back  garden  and  up  the  'ill  so  that  she  may 
meet  young  Johnson  as  he  is  ridin'  home." 

"I'll  have  none  of  this  scandal-mongering  going  on 
in  my  kitchen,"  said  Mrs.  Latch.  "Do  you  see  that 
girl  there?     She  can't  get  past  to  her  scullery." 

Esther  would  have  managed  pretty  well  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  dining-room  lunch.  Miss  Mary  was 
expecting  some  friends  to  play  tennis  with  her,  and, 
besides  the  roast  chicken,  there  were  the  cotelettes  a 
la  Soubise  and  a  curr>\  There  was  for  dessert  a  jelly 
and  a  blancmange,  and  Esther  did  not  know  where 
any  of  the  things  were,  and  a  great  deal  of  time  was 
wasted.  "Don't  5^ou  move,  I  might  as  well  get  it 
myself,"  said  the  old  woman.  Mr.  Randal,  too,  lost 
his  temper,  for  she  had  no  hot  plates  ready,  nor  could 


20  ESTHER     WATERS 

she  distinguish  between  those  that  were  to  go  to  the 
dining-room  and  those  that  were  to  go  to  the  servants' 
hall.  She  understood,  however,  that  it  would  not  be 
wise  to  give  way  to  her  feeling,  and  that  the  only  way 
she  could  hope  to  retain  her  situation  was  by  doing 
nothing  to  attract  attention.     She  must  learn  to  con- 

/      trol  that  temper  of  hers — she  must  and  would.     And  it 
was  in  this  frame  of  mind  and  with  this  determination 

X.  that  she  entered  the  servants'  hall. 

There  were  not  more  than  ten  or  eleven  at  dinner, 
but  sitting  close  together  they  seemed  more  numerous, 
and  quite  half  the  number  of  faces  that  looked  up,  as 
she  took  her  place  next  to  Margaret  Gale,  were 
unknown  to  her.  There  were  the  four  ugly  little 
boys  whom  she  had  seen  on  the  race -horses,  but  she 
did  not  recognize  them  at  first,  and  nearly  opposite, 
sitting  next  to  the  lady's-maid,  was  a  small,  sandy- 
haired  man  about  forty:  he  was  beginning  to  show 
signs  of  stoutness,  and  two  little  round  whiskers  grew 
on  his  pallid  cheeks.  Mr.  Randal  sat  at  the  end  of  the 
table  helping  the  pudding.  He  addressed  the  sandy- 
haired  man  as  Mr.  Swindles;  but  Esther  learnt  after- 
wards his  real  name  was  Ward,  and  that  he  was  Mr. 
Barfield's  head  groom.  She  learnt,  too,  that  *'the 
Demon"  was  not  the  real  name  of  the  little  carroty- 
haired  boy,  and  she  looked  at  him  in  amazement  when 
he  whispered  in  her  ear  that  he  would  dearly  love  a 
real  go-in  at  that  pudding,  but  it  was  so  fattening  that 
he  didn't  ever  dare  to  venture  on  more  than  a  couple 
of  sniffs.  Seeing  that  the  girl  did  not  understand,  he 
added,  by  way  of  explanation,  *'You  know  that  I  must 
keep  under  the  six  stone,  and  at  times  it  becomes 
.awful  'ard." 


ESTHER     WATERS  21 

Esther  thought  him  a  nice  little  fellow,  and  tried  to 
persuade  him  to  forego  his  resolution  not  to  touch 
pudding,  until  Mr.  Swindles  told  her  to  desist.  The 
attention  of  the  whole  table  being  thus  drawn  towards 
the  boy,  Esther  was  still  further  surprised  at  the 
admiration  he  seemed  so  easily  to  command  and  the 
important  position  he  seemed  to  occupy,  notwithstand- 
ing his  diminutive  stature,  whereas  the  bigger  boys 
were  treated  with  very  little  consideration.  The 
long-nosed  lad,  with  weak  eyes  and  sloping  shoulders, 
who  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  table  on  Mr.  Swindles' 
left,  was  everybody's  laughing-stock,  especially  Mr. 
Swindles',  who  did  not  cease  to  poke  fun  at  him.  Mr. 
Swindles  was  now  telling  poor  Jim's  misadventures 
with  the  Gaffer. 

"But  why  do  you  call  him  Mr.  Leopold  when  his 
name  is  Mr.  Randal?"  Esther  ventured  to  inquire  of 
the  Demon. 

"On  account  of  Leopold  Rothschild,"  said  the 
Demon;  "he's  pretty  near  as  rich,  if  the  truth  was 
known — won  a  pile  over  the  City  and  Sub.  Pity  you 
weren't  there;  might  have  had  a  bit  on." 

"I  have  never  seen  the  City,"  Esther  replied  inno- 
cently. 

"Never  seen  the  City  and  Sub!  ...  I  was  up,  had 
a  lot  in  hand,  so  I  came  away  from  my  'orses  the 
moment  I  got  into  the  dip.  The  Tinman  nearly 
caught  me  on  the  post — came  with  a  terrific  rush ;  he 
is  just  hawful,  that  Tinman  is.  I  did  catch  it  from  the 
Gaffer — he  did  give  it  me." 

The  plates  of  all  the  boys  except  the  Demon's  were 
now  filled  with  beefsteak,  pudding,  potatoes,  and 
greens,   likewise    Esther's.      Mr.    Leopold,   Mr.   Swin- 


22  ESTHER    WATERS 

dies,  the  housemaid,  and  the  cook  dined  off  the  leg  of 
mutton,  a  small  slice  of  which  was  sent  to  the  Demon. 
"That  for  a  dinner!"  and  as  he  took  up  his  knife  and 
fork  and  cut  a  small  piece  of  his  one  slice,  he  said,  ' '  I 
suppose  you  never  had  to  reduce  yourself  three 
pounds;  girls  never  have.  I  do  run  to  flesh  so,  you 
wouldn't  believe  it.  If  I  don't  walk  to  Portsdale  and 
back  every  second  day,  I  go  up  three  or  four  pounds. 
Then  there's  nothing  for  it  but  the  physic,  and  that's 
what  settles  me.  Can  you  take  physic?" 
**I  took  three  Beecham's  pills  once." 
"Oh,  that's  nothing.  Can  you  take  castor-oil?" 
Esther  looked  in  amazement  at  the  little  boy  at  her 
side.  Swindles  had  overheard  the  question  and  burst 
into  a  roar  of  laughter  Everyone  wanted  to  know 
what  the  joke  was,  and,  feeling  they  were  poking  fun 
at  her,  Esther  refused  to  answer. 

The  first  helpings  of  pudding  or  mutton  had  taken 
the  edge  off  their  appetites,  and  before  sending  their 
plates  for  more  they  leaned  over  the  table  listening 
and  laughing  open-mouthed.  It  was  a  bare  room,  lit 
with  one  window,  against  which  Mrs.  Latch's  austere 
figure  appeared  in  dark-grey  silhouette.  The  window 
looked  on  one  of  the  little  back  courts  and  tiled  wa5^s 
which  had  been  built  at  the  back  of  the  house ;  and 
the  shadowed  northern  light  softened  the  listening 
faces  with  grey  tints. 

"You  know,"  said  Mr.  Swindles,  glancing  at  Jim  as 
if  to  assure  himself  that  the  boy  was  there  and  unable 
to  escape  from  the  hooks  of  his  sarcasm,  "how  fast  the 
Gaffer  talks,  and  how  he  hates  to  be  asked  to  repeat 
his  words.  Knowing  this,  Jim  always  says,  'Yes,  sir; 
yes,  sir.'     'Now  do  you  quite  understand?'   says  the 


ESTHER     WATERS  23 

Gaffer.  'Yes,  sir;  yes,  sir,'  replies  Jim,  not  having 
understood  one  word  of  what  was  said ;  but  relying  on 
us  to  put  him  right.  'Now  what  did  he  say  I  was  to 
do?'  says  Jim,  the  moment  the  Gaffer  is  out  of  hearing. 
But  this  morning  we  were  on  ahead,  and  the  Gaffer 
had  Jim  all  to  himself.  As  usual  he  says,  'Now  do 
you  quite  understand?'  and  as  usual  Jim  says,  'Yes, 
sir;  yes,  sir.'  Suspecting  that  Jim  had  not  under- 
stood, I  said  when  he  joined  us,  'Now  if  you  are  not 
sure  what  he  said  you  had  better  go  back  and  ask  him, ' 
but  Jim  declared  that  he  had  perfectly  understood. 
'And  what  did  he  tell  you  to  do?'  said  I.  'He  told 
me,'  says  Jim,  'to  bring  the  colt  along  and  finish  up 
close  by  where  he  would  be  standing  at  the  end  of  the 
track. '  I  thought  it  rather  odd  to  send  Firefly  such  a 
stiff  gallop  as  all  that,  but  Jim  was  certain  that  he  had 
heard  right.  And  off  they  went,  beginning  the  other 
side  of  Southwick  Hill.  I  saw  the  Gaffer  with  his 
arms  in  the  air,  and  don't  know  now  what  he  said. 
Jim  will  tell  you.  He  did  give  it  you,  didn't  he,  you 
old  Woolgatherer?"  said  Mr.  Swindles,  slapping  the 
boy  on  the.  shoulder. 

"You  may  laugh  as  much  as  you  please,  but  I'm 
sure  he  did  tell  me  to  come  along  three-quarter  speed 
after  passing  the  barn,"  replied  Jim,  and  to  change 
the  conversation  he  asked  Mr.  Leopold  for  some  more 
pudding,  and  the  Demon's  hungry  eyes  watched  the 
last  portion  being  placed  on  the  Woolgatherer's  plate. 
Noticing  that  Esther  drank  no  beer,  he  exclaimed — 

"Well,  I  never;  to  see  yer  eat  and  drink  one  would 
think  that  it  was  you  who  was  a- wasting  to  ride  the 
crack  at  Goodwood. ' '  , 

The  remark  was  received  with  laughter,  and,  excitedj' 


34  ESTHER     WATERS 

by   his   success,    the    Demon   threw    his   arms    round 
Esther,  and  seizing  her  hands,  said,  "Now  yer  a  jest 
beginning  to  get  through  yer  'osses,  and  when  you  get 
on  a  level "     But  the  Demon,  in  his  hungry  merri- 
ment, had  bestowed  no  thought  of  finding  a  temper  in 
such  a  staid  little  girl,  and    a  sound  box  on  the  ear 
li  threw  him  backwards  into  his  seat  surprised  and  howl- 
\  ing.     ' '  Yer  nasty  thing ! "  he  blubbered  out.     ' '  Couldn '  t 
\  you  see  it  was  only  a  joke?"     But  passion  was  hot  in 
*   Esther.     She  had  understood  no  word  that  had  been 
said  since  she  had  sat  down  to  dinner,  and,  conscious 
of  her  poverty  and  her  ignorance,  she  imagined  that  a 
great   deal  of    the   Demon's    conversation    had    been 
directed  against  her;  and,   choking  w4th  indignation, 
she  only  heard  indistinctly  the  reproaches  with  which 
the  other  little  boys  covered  her — "nasty,  dirty,  ill- 
tempered    thing,    scullery-maid, ' '   etc.  ;    nor   did   she 
understand  their  whispered  plans  to  duck  her  when 
,  she  passed  the   stables.     All  looked  a  little  askance, 
,'  especially  Grover  and  Mr.  Leopold.     Margaret  said— 
*^  "That  will  teach  these  impertinent  little  jockey-boys 
that  the  servants'  hall  is  not  the  harness-room;  they 
oughtn't  to  be  admitted  here  at  all. " 

Mr.  Leopold  nodded,  and  told  the  Demon  to  leave 
off  blubbering.  "You  can't  be  so  much  hurt  as  all 
that.  Come,  wipe  your  eyes  and  have  a  piece  of  cur- 
rant tart,  or  leave  the  room.  I  want  to  hear  from 
Mr.  Swindles  an  account  of  the  trial.  We  know  that 
Silver  Braid  won,  but  we  haven't  heard  how  he  won 
nor  yet  what  the  weights  were." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Swindles,  "what  I  makes  out  is 
this.  I  was  riding  within  a  pound  or  two  of  nine 
stone,  and  The  Rake  is,  as  you  know,  seven  pounds, 


ESTHER     WATERS  25 

no  more,  worse  than  Bayleaf.  Ginger  rides  usually  as 
near  as  possible  my  weight — we'll  say  he  was  riding 
nine  two — I  think  he  could  manage  that — and  the 
Demon,  we  know,  he  is  now  riding  over  the  six  stone; 
in  his  ordinary  clothes  he  rides  six  seven. ' ' 

' '  Yes,  yes,  but  how  do  we  know  that  there  was  any 
lead  to  speak  of  in  the  Demon's  saddle-cloth?" 

"The  Demon  says  there  wasn't  above  a  stone. 
Don't  you,  Demon?" 

"I  don't  know  nothing!  I'm  not  going  to  stand 
being  clouted  by  the  kitchen-maid." 

"Oh,  shut  up,  or  leave  the  room,"  said  Mr.  Leopold; 
"we  don't  want  to  hear  any  more  about  that. " 

"I  started  making  the  running  according  to  orders. 
Ginger  was  within  three-quarters  of  a  length  of  me, 
being  pulled  out  of  the  saddle.  The  Gaffer  was  stand- 
ing at  the  three-quarters  of  the  mile,  and  there  Ginger 
won  fairly  easily,  but  they  went  on  to  the  mile — them 
were  the  orders — and  there  the  Demon  won  by  half  a 
length,  that  is  to  say  if  Ginger  wasn't  a-kidding  of 
him." 

"A-kidding  of  me!"  said  the  Demon.  "When  we 
was  a  hundred  yards  from  'ome  I  steadied  without  his 
noticing  me,  and  then  I  landed  in  the  last  fifty  yards 
by  half  a  length.  Ginger  can't  ride  much  better  than 
any  other  gentleman. " 

"Yer  see,"  said  Mr.  Swindles,  "he'd  sooner  have  a 
box  on  the  ear  from  the  kitchen-maid  than  be  told  a 
gentleman  could  kid  him  at  a  finish.  He  wouldn't 
mind  if  it  w^as  the  Tinman,  eh,  Demon?" 

"We  know,"  said  Mr.  Leopold,  "that  Ba3'leaf  can 
get  the  mile;  there  must  have  been  a  lot  of  weight 
between  them.     Besides,  I  should  think  that  the  trial 


26  ESTHER     WATERS 

was  at  the  three-quarters  of  the  mile.  The  mile  was 
so  much  kid." 

''I  should  say,"  replied  Mr.  Swindles,  "that  the 
'orses  were  tried  at  twenty-one  pounds,  and  if  Silver 
Braid  can  beat  Bayleaf  at  that  weight,  he'll  take  a  deal 
of  beating  at  Goodwood." 

And  leaning  forward,  their  arms  on  the  table,  with 
large  pieces  of  cheese  at  the  end  of  their  knives,  the 
maid-servants  and  the  jockey  listened  while  Mr.  Leopold 
and  Mr.  Swindles  discussed  the  chances  the  stable 
had  of  pulling  off  the  Stew^ards'  Cup  with  Silver  Braid. 

"But  he  will  always  keep  on  trying  them,"  said  Mr. 
Swindles,  "and  what's  the  use,  says  I,  of  trying  'orses 
that  are  no  more  than  'alf  fit?  And  them  downs  is  just 
rotten  with  'orse  watchers;  it  has  just  come  to  this, 
that  you  can't  comb  out  an  'orse's  mane  without  seeing 
it  in  the  papers  the  day  after.     If  I  had  my  way  with 

them  gentry "     Mr.  Swindles  finished  his  beer  at  a 

gulp,  and  he  put  down  his  glass  as  firmly  as  he  desired 
to  put  down  the  horse  watchers.  At  the  end  of  a  long 
silence  Mr.  Leopold  said — 

"Come  into  my  pantry  and  smoke  a  pipe.  Mr. 
Arthur  will  be  down  presently.  Perhaps  he'll  tell  us 
what  weight  he  was  riding  this  morning. ' ' 

"Cunning  old  bird,"  said  Mr.  Swindles,  as  he  rose 
from  the  table  and  wiped  his  shaven  lips  with  the  back 
of  his  hand;  "and  you'd  have  us  believe  that  you 
didn't  know,  would  you?  You'd  have  us  believe,  would 
you,  that  the  Gaffer  don't  tell  you  everything  when 
you  bring  up  his  hot  water  in  the  morning,  would  you?" 
■  Mr.  Leopold  laughed  under  his  breath,  and  looking 
mysterious  and  very  rat-like  he  led  the  way  to  his  pan- 
try.    Esther  watched  them  in  strange  trouble  of  soul 


ESTHER     WATERS  27 

She    had   heard  of   racecourses  as  shameful  places   '/ 


where  men  were  led  to  their  ruin,  and  betting  she 
had  always  understood  to  be  sinful,  but  in  this  house 
no  one  seemed  to  think  of  anything  else.  It  was  no 
place  for  a  Christian  girl. 

"Let's  have  some  more  of  the  stor}^,"  Margaret  said. 
"You've  got  the  new  number.  The  last  piece  was 
where  he  is  going  to  ask  the  opera-singer  to  run  away 
with  him." 

Sarah  took  an  illustrated  journal  out  of  her  pocket 
and  began  to  read  aloud* 


Vx^ 


/ 


III. 

Esther  was  one  of  the  Plymouth  Brethren.  In  their 
chapel,  if  the  house  in  which  they  met  could  be  called 
a  chapel,  there  were  neither  pictured  stories  of  saints, 
nor  vestments,  nor'  music,  nor  even  imaginative  stim- 
ulant in  the  shape  of  written  prayers.  Her  knowledge 
of  life  was  strictly  limited  to  her  experience  of  life; 
_she  knew  no  drama  of  passion  except  that  which  the 
Gospels  relate :  this  story  in  the  Family  Reader  was 
the  first  representation  of  life  she  had  met  with,  and 
its  humanity  thrilled  her  like  the  first  idol  set  up  for 
worship.  The  actress  told  Norris  that  she  loved  him. 
They  were  on  a  balcony,  the  sky  was  blue,  the  moon 
was  shining,  the  warm  scent  of  the  mignonette  came 
up  from  the  garden  below,  the  man  was  in  evening 
dress  with  diamond  shirt  studs,  the  actress's  arm  was 
large  and  white.  They  had  loved  each  other  for 
years.  The  strangest  events  had  happened  for  the 
purpose  of  bringing  them  together,  and,  fascinated 
against  her  will,  Esther  could  not  but  listen.  But  at 
the  end  of  the  chapter  the  racial  instinct  forced 
reproval  from  her. 

"I  am  sure  it  is  wicked  to  read  such  tales. " 

Sarah  looked  at  her  in  mute  astonishment.  Grover 
said — 

"You  shouldn't  be  here  at  all.  Can't  Mrs.  Latch 
find  nothing  for  you  to  do  in  the  scullery?" 

"Then,"  said  Sarah,  awaking  to  a  sense  of  the  situ- 

28 


ESTHER    WATERS  «9 

ation,  "I  suppose  that  where  you  come  from  you  were 
not  so  much  as  allowed  to  read  a  tale ;  .  .  .  dirty 
little  chapel-going  folk!" 

The  incident  might  have  closed  with  this  reproval 
had  not  Margaret  volunteered  the  information  that 
Esther's  box  was  full  of  books. 

"I  should  like  to  see  them  books,"  said  Sarah.  **I'll 
be  bound  that  they  are  only  prayer-books. '  * 

*'I  don't  mind  what  you  say  to  me,  but  you  shall  not 
insult  my  religion." 

"Insult  your  religion!  I  said  you  never  had  read  a 
book  in  your  life  unless  it  was  a  prayer-book." 

'*We  don't  use  prayer-books." 

"Then  what  books  have  you  read?" 

Esther  hesitated,  her  manner  betrayed  her,  and,  sus- 
pecting the  truth,  Sarah  said : 

"I  don't  believe  that  you  can  read  at  all.  Come, 
I'll  bet  you  twopence  that  you  can't  read  the  first  five 
lines  of  my  story. " 

Esther  pushed  the  paper  from  her  and  walked  out  of 
the  room  in  a  tumult  of  grief  and  humiliation.  Wood- 
view  and  all  belonging  to  it  had  growm  unbearable,  and 
heedless  to  what  complaint  the  cook  might  make 
against  her  she  ran  upstairs  and  shut  herself  into  her 
room.  She  asked  why  they  should  take  pleasure  in 
torturing  her.  It  was  not  her  fault  if  she  did  not  know 
how  to  read.  There  were  the  books  she  loved  for  her 
mother's  sake,  the  books  that  had  brought  such  dis- 
grace upon  her.  Even  the  names  she  could  not  read, 
and  the  shame  of  her  ignorance  lay  upon  her  heavier 
than  a  weight  of  lead.  "Peter  Parley's  Annual," 
"Sunny  Memories  of  Foreign  Lands,"  "Children  of  the 
Abbey,"    "Uncle    Tom's  Cabin,"  Lamb's   "Tales  of 


3©  ESTHER    WATERS 

Shakespeare's  Plays,"  a  Cooking  Book,  "Roda's  Mis- 
sion of  Love,"  the  Holy  Bible  and  the  Common  Prayer 
Book. 

She  turned  them  over,  wondering  what  were  the 
mysteries  that  this  print  held  from  her.  It  was  to  her 
roysterious  as  the  stars. 

Esther  Waters  came  from  Barnstaple.  She  had 
been  brought  up  in  the  strictness  of  the  Plymouth 
Brethren,  and  her  earliest  memories  were  of  prayers, 
of  narrow,  peaceful  family  life.  This  early  life  had 
lasted  till  she  was  ten  years  old.  Then  her  father  died. 
He  had  been  a  house-painter,  but  in  early  youth  he 
had  been  led  into  intemperance  by  some  wild  compan- 
ions. He  was  often  not  in  a  fit  state  to  go  to  work, 
and  one  day  the  fumes  of  the  beer  he  had  drunk  over- 
powered him  as  he  sat  in  the  strong  sunlight  on  his 
scafEftlding.  In  the  hospital  he  called  upon  God  to 
relieve  him  of  his  suffering ;  then  the  Brethren  said, 
"You  never  thought  of  God  before.  Be  patient,  your 
health  is  coming  back ;  it  is  a  present  from  God ;  you 
would  like  to  know  Him  and  thank  Him  from  the  bot- 
tom of  your  heart?" 

John  Waters'  heart  was  touched.  He  became  one 
of  the  Brethren,  renouncing  those  companions  who 
refused  to  follow  into  the  glory  of  God.  His  conver- 
sion and  subsequent  grace  won  for  him  the  sympathies 
of  Mary  Thomby.  But  Mary's  father  would  not  con- 
sent to  the  marriage  unless  John  abandoned  his  dan- 
gerous trade  of  house-painter.  John  Waters  consented 
to  do  this,  and  old  James  Thomby,  who  had  made  a 
competence  in  the  curiosity  line,  offered  to  make  over 
his  shop  to  the  young  couple  on  certain  conditions; 
these  conditions  were  accepted,  and  under  his  father- 


ESTHER     WATERS  3^ 

m -law's  direction  John  drove  a  successful  trade  in  old 
glass,  old  jewellery,  and  old  furniture. 

The  Brethren  liked  not  this  trade,  and  they  often 
came  to  John  to  speak  with  him  on  the  subject,  and 
their  words  were — 

"Of  course  this  is  between  you  and  the  Lord,  but 
these  things"  (pointing  to  the  old  glass  and  jewellery) 
''often  are  but  snares  for  the  feet,  and  lead  weaker 
brethren  into  temptation.  Of  course,  it  is  between 
you  and  the  Lord." 

So  John  Waters  was  tormented  with  scruples  con- 
cerning the  righteousness  of  his  trade,  but  his  wife's 
gentle  voice  and  eyes,  and  the  limitations  that  his  acci- 
dent, from  which  he  had  never  wholly  recovered,  had 
set  upon  his  life,  overruled  his  scruples,  and  he 
remained  until  he  died  a  dealer  in  artistic  ware,  elim- 
inating, however,  from  his  dealings  those  things  to 
which  the  Brethren  most  strongly  objected. 

When  he  died  his  widow  strove  to  carry  on  the  busi- 
ness, but  her  father,  who  was  now  a  confirmed  invalid, 
could  not  help  her.  In  the  following  year  she  lost 
both  her  parents.  Many  changes  were  taking  place  in 
Barnstaple,  new  houses  were  being  built,  a  much 
larger  and  finer  shop  had  been  opened  in  the  more 
prosperous  end  of  the  town,  and  Mrs.  Waters  found 
herself  obliged  to  sell  her  business  for  almost  nothing, 
and  marry  again.  Children  were  bom  of  this  second 
marriage  in  rapid  succession,  the  cradle  was  never 
empty,  and  Esther  was  spoken  of  as  the  little  nurse. 
Her  great  solicitude  was  for  her  poor  mother,  who  had 
lost  her  health,  whose  blood  was  impoverished  by  con- 
stant child-bearing.  Mother  and  daughter  were  seen 
in  the  evenings,  one  with  a  baby  at  her  breast,  the 

3  y 


/ 


32  ESTHER     WATERS 

other  with  an  eighteen  months  old  child  in  her  arms. 
Esther  did  not  dare  leave  her  mother,  and  to  protect 
her  she  gave  up  school,  and  this  was  why  she  had 
never  learnt  how  to  read. 

One  of  the  many  causes  of  quarrel  between  Mrs. 
Saunders  and  her  husband  was  her  attendance  at 
prayer-meetings  when  he  said  she  should  be  at  home 
minding  her  children.  He  used  to  accuse  her  of 
carrying  on  with  the  Scripture-readers,  and  to  punish 
her  he  would  say,  "This  week  I'll  spend  five  bob  more 
in  the  public — that'll  teach  you,  if  beating  won't,  that 
I  don't  want  none  of  your  hypocritical  folk  hanging 
round  my  place."  So  it  befell  the  Saunders  family  to 
have  little  to  eat;  and  Esther  often  wondered  how  she 
should  get  a  bit  of  dinner  for  her  sick  mother  and  her 
hungry  little  brothers  and  sisters.  Once  they  passed 
nearly  thirty  hours  without  food.  She  called  them 
round  her,  and  knelt  down  amid  them :  they  prayed 
that  God  might  help  them;  and  their  prayers  were 
answered,  for  at  half-past  twelve  a  Scripture  lady  came 
in  with  flowers  in  her  hands.  She  asked  Mrs.  Saun- 
ders how  her  appetite  was.  Mrs.  Saunders  answered 
that  it  was  more  than  she  could  afford,  for  there  was 
nothing  to  eat  in  the  house.  Then  the  Scripture  lady 
gave  them  eighteen  pence,  and  they  all  knelt  down  and 
thanked  God  together. 

But  although  Saunders  spent  a  great  deal  of  his 
money  in  the  public-house,  he  rarely  got  drunk  and 
always  kept  his  employment.  He  was  a  painter  of 
engines,  a  first-rate  hand,  earning  good  money,  from 
twenty-five  to  thirty  shillings  a  week.  He  was  a 
proud  man,  but  so  avaricious  that  he  stopped  at  noth- 
ing to  get  money.     He  was  an  ardent  politician,  yet  he 


ESTHER    WATERS  33 

would  sell  his  vote  to  the  highest  bidder,  and  when 
Esther  was  seventeen  he  compelled  her  to  take  service 
regardless  of  the  character  of  the  people  or  of  what 
the  place  was  like.  They  had  left  Barnstaple  many 
months,  and  were  now  living  in  a  little  street  off  the 
Vauxhall  Bridge  Road,  near  the  factory  where  Saun- 
ders worked;  and  since  they  had  been  in  London 
Esther  had  been  constantly  in  service.  Why  should 
he  keep  her?  She  wasn't  one  of  his  children,  he  had 
quite  enough  of  his  own.  Sometimes  of  an  evening, 
when  Esther  could  escape  from  her  drudgery  for  a  few 
minutes,  her  mother  would  step  round,  and  mother  and 
daughter,  wrapped  in  the  same  shawl,  would  walk  to 
and  fro  telling  each  other  their  troubles,  just  as  in  old 
times.  But  these  moments  were  few.  In  grimy 
lodging-houses  she  worked  from  early  morning  till  late 
at  night,  scrubbing  grates,  preparing  bacon  and  eggs, 
cooking  chops,  and  making  beds.  She  had  become 
one  of  those  London  girls  to  whom  rest,  not  to  say 
pleasure,  is  unknowm,  who  if  they  should  sit  down  for 
a  few  moments  hear  the  mistress's  voice,  *'Now,  Eliza, 
have  you  nothing  to  do,  that  you  are  sitting  there  idle?" 
Two  of  her  mistresses,  one  after  the  other,  had  been 
sold  up,  and  now  all  the  rooms  in  the  neighbourhood 
were  unlet,  no  one  wanted  a  *' slavey,"  and  Esther 
was  obliged  to  return  home.  It  was  on  the  last  of 
these  occasions  that  her  father  had  taken  her  by  the 
shoulders,  saying — 

"No  lodging-houses  that  want  a  slavey?  I'll  see 
about  that.     Tell  me,  first,  have  you  been  to  78?" 

"Yes,  but  another  girl  was  before  me,  and  the  place 
was  taken  when  I  arrived." 

**I  wonder  what  you  were  doing  that  you  didn't  get 

/ 


34  ESTHER     WATERS 

there  sooner;  dangling  about  after  your  mother,  I  sup- 
pose!    Well,  what  about  27  in  the  Crescent?" 

"I  couldn't  go  there — that  Mrs.  Dunbar  is  a  bad 
woman. ' ' 

"Bad  woman!  Who  are  you,  I  should  like  to  know, 
that  you  can  take  a  lady's  character  away?  Who  told 
you  she  was  a  bad  woman?  One  of  the  Scripture^ 
readers,  I  suppose!  I  knew  it  was.  Well,  then,  just 
get  out  of  my  house. " 

"Where  shall  I  go?" 

"  Go  to  hell  for  all  I  care.   Do  you  hear  me  ?  Get  out ! ' ' 

Esther  did  not  move — words,  and  then  blows. 
Esther's  escape  from  her  stepfather  seemed  a  miracle, 
and  his  anger  was  only  appeased  by  Mrs,  Saunders 
promising  that  Esther  should  accept  the  situation. 

"Only  for  a  little  while.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Dunbar  is  a 
better  woman  than  you  think  for.  For  my  sake, 
dearie.     If  you  don't  he  may  kill  you  and  me  too. " 

Esther  looked  at  her  one  moment,  then  she  said, 
"Very  well,  mother,  to-morrow  I'll  take  the  place." 

No  longer  was  the  girl  starved,  no  longer  was  she 
made  to  drudge  till  the  thought  of  another  day  was  a 
despair  and  a  terror.  And  seeing  that  she  was  a  good 
girl,  Mrs.  Dunbar  respected  her  scruples.  Indeed,  she 
was  very  kind,  and  Esther  soon  learnt  to  like  her,  and, 
through  her  affe^ion  for  her,  to  think  less  of  the  life 
she  led.  A  dangerous  point  is  this  in  a  young  girl's 
life.  Esther  was  young,  and  pretty,  and  weary,  and 
out  of  health ;  and  it  was  at  this  critical  moment  that 
Lady  Elwin,  who,  while  visiting,  had  heard  her 
story,  promised  Mrs.  Saunders  to  find  Esther  another 
place.  And  to  obviate  all  difficulties  about  references 
and  character,  Lady  Elwin  proposed  to  take  Esther  as 


ESTHER     WATERS  35 

her  o^vn  servant  for  a  sufficient  while  to  justify  her  in 

recommending  her.  ^^ 

And  now,  as  she  turned  over  her  books — the  books  j 
she  could  not  read — her  pure  and  passionate  mind  was 
filled  with  the  story  of  her  life.     She  remembered  her 
poor  little  brothers  and  sisters  and  her  dear  mother, 
and  that  tyrant  revenging  himself  upon  them  because 
of  the  little  she  might  eat  and  drink.     No,  she  must 
bear  with  all  insults  and  scorn,  and  forget  that  they  j 
thought  her  as  dirt  under  their  feet.     But  what  were   ' 
such  sufferings  compared  to  those  she  would  endure 
were  she  to  return  home?     In  truth  they  were  as  noth- , 
ing.     And  yet  the  girl  longed  to  leave  Woodview.     She 
had  never  been  out  of  sight  of  home  before.     Amid 
the  violences  of  her  stepfather  there  had  always  been 
her  mother  and  the    meeting-house.      In    Woodview 
there  was  nothing,  only  Margaret,  who  had  come  to 
console  and  persuade  her  to  come  downstairs.     The 
resolution  she  had  to  call  out  of  her  soul  to  do  this 
exhausted  her,  and  she  went  downstairs  heedless  of 
what  anyone  might  say. 

Two  and  three  days  passed  without  anything  occur- 
ring that  might  suggest  that  the  Fates  were  for  or  against 
her  remaining.  Mrs.  Barfield  continued  to  be  indis- 
posed, but  at  the  end  of  the  week  Esther,  while  she  was 
at  work  in  the  scullery,  heard  a  new  voice  speaking 
with  Mrs.  Latch.  This  must  be  Mrs.  Barfield.  She 
heard  Mrs.  Latch  tell  the  story  of  her  refusal  to  go  to 
work  the  evening  she  arrived.  But  Mrs.  Barfield  told 
her  that  she  would  listen  to  no  further  complaints ;  this 
was  the  third  kitchen-maid  in  four  months,  and  Mrs. 
Latch  must  make  up  her  mind  to  bear  with  the  faults 
and  failings  of    this    last  one,   whatever  they  were. 


/ 

\ 


36  ESTHER    WATERS 

Then  Mrs.  Barfield  called  Esther;  and  when  she 
entered  the  kitchen  she  found  herself  face  to  face  with 
a  little  red-haired  woman,  with  a  pretty,  pointed  face. 

"I  hear.  Waters — that  is  your  name,  I  think — that 
you  refused  to  obey  cook,  and  walked  out  of  the 
kitchen  the  night  you  arrived." 

*'I  said,  ma'am,  that  I  would  wait  till  my  box  came 
up  from  the  station,  so  that  I  might  change  my  dress. 
Mrs.  Latch  said  my  dress  didn't  matter,  but  when  one 
is  poor  and  hasn't  many  dresses " 

"Are  you  short  of  clothes,  then?" 

*'I  have  not  many,  ma'am,  and  the  dress  I  had  on 
the  day  I  came " 

"Never  mind  about  that.  Tell  me,  are  you  short  of 
clothes?— for  if  you  are  I  daresay  my  daughter  might 
find  you  something — ^you  are  about  the  same  height — 
with  a  little  alteration " 

"Oh,  ma'am,  you  are  too  good.  I  shall  be  most 
grateful.  But  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  manage  till 
my  first  quarter's  wages  come  to  me." 

And  the  scowl  upon  Mrs.  Latch's  long  face  did  ndt 
kill  the  pleasure  which  the  little  interview  with  that 
kind,  sweet  woman,  Mrs.  Barfield,  had  created  in  her. 
She  moved  about  her  work,  happy  at  heart,  singing  to 
herself  as  she  washed  the  vegetables.  Even  Mrs. 
Latch's  harshness  didn't  trouble  her  much.  She  felt 
it  to  be  a  manner  under  which  there  might  be  a  kind 
heart,  and  she  hoped  by  her  willingness  to  work  to 
gain  at  least  the  cook's  toleration.  Margaret  suggested 
that  Esther  should  give  up  her  beer.  A  solid  pint 
extra  a  day  could  not  fail,  she  said,  to  win  the  old 
woman's  gratitude,  and  perhaps  induce  her  to  teach 
Esther  how  to  make  pastry  and  jellies. 


ESTHER     WATERS  37 

True  that  Margaret  joined  in  the  common  laugh  and 
jeer  that  the  knowledge  that  Esther  said  her  prayers 
morning  and  evening  inspired.  She  sometimes  united 
with  Grover  and  Sarah  in  perplexing  Esther  with 
questions  regarding  her  previous  situations,  but  her 
hostilities  were,  on  the  whole,  gentle,  and  Esther  felt 
that  this  almost  neutral  position  was  the  best  that 
Margaret  could  have  adopted.  She  defended  her 
without  seeming  to  do  so,  and  seemed  genuinely  fond  of 
her,  helping  her  sometimes  even  with  her  w^ork,  which 
Mrs.  Latch  made  as  heavy  as  possible.  But  Esther 
was  now  determined  to  put  up  with  every  task  they 
might  impose  upon  her;  she  would  give  them  no 
excuse  for  sending  her  away;  she  would  remain  at 
Woodview  until  she  had  learned  sufficient  cooking  to 
enable  her  to  get  another  place.  But  Mrs.  Latch  had 
the  power  to  thwart  her  in  this.  Before  beginning  on 
her  jellies  and  gravies  Mrs.  Latch  was  sure  to  find 
some  saucepans  that  had  not  been  sufficiently  cleaned 
with  white  sand,  and,  if  her  search  proved  abortive, 
she  would  send  Esther  upstairs  to  scrub  out  her 
bedroom. 

"I  cannot  think  why  she  is  so  down  upon  me," 
Esther  often  said  to  Margaret. 

"She  isn't  more  down  upon  you  than  she  was  on  the 
others.  You  needn't  expect  to  learn  any  cooking  from 
her ;  her  plan  has  always  been  to  take  care  that  she 
shall  not  be  supplanted  by  any  of  her  kitchen-maids. 
But  I  don't  see  why  she  should  be  always  sending  you 
upstairs  to  clean  out  her  bedroom.  If  Grover  wasn't 
so  stand-offish,  we  might  tell  her  about  it,  and  she 
could  tell  the  Saint— that's  what  we  call  the  missis; 
the  Saint  would  soon  put  a  stop  to  all  that  nonsense. 


38  ESTHER    WATERS 

I  will  say  that  for  the  Saint,  she  do  like  everyone  to 
have  fair  play. ' ' 

Mrs.  Barfield,  or  the  Saint,  as  she  was  called, 
belonged,  like  Esther,  to  the  sect  known  as  the 
Plymouth  Brethren.  She  was  the  daughter  of  one  of 
the  farmers  on  the  estate — a  very  old  man  called 
Elliot.  He  had  spent  his  life  on  his  barren  down 
farm,  becoming  intimate  with  no  one,  driving  hard 
bargains  with  all,  especially  the  squire  and  the  poor 
flint-pickers.  He  could  be  seen  still  on  the  hill-sides, 
his  long  black  coat  buttoned  strictly  about  him,  his  soft 
felt  hat  crushed  over  the  thin,  grey  face.  Pretty 
Fanny  Elliot  had  won  the  squire's  heart  as  he  rode 
across  the  down.  Do  you  not  see  the  shy  figure  of  the 
Puritan  maiden  tripping  through  the  gorse,  hastening 
the  hoofs  of  the  squire's  cob?  And,  furnished  with 
some  pretext  of  estate  business,  he  often  rode  to  the 
farm  that  lay  under  the  shaws  at  the  end  of  the 
coombe.  The  squire  had  to  promise  to  become  one  of 
the  Brethren,  and  he  had  to  promise  never  to  bet 
again,  before  Fanny  Elliot  agreed  to  become  Mrs.  Bar- 
field.  The  ambitious  members  of  the  Barfield  family 
declared  that  the  marriage  was  social  ruin,  but  more 
dispassionate  critics  called  it  a  very  suitable  match ; 
for  it  was  not  forgotten  that  three  generations  ago  the 
Barfields  were  liver5^-stable  keepers;  they  had  risen  in 
the  late  squire's  time  to  the  level  of  county  families, 
and  the  envious  were  now  saying  that  the  Barfield 
family  was  sinking  back  whence  it  came. 

He  was  faithful  to  his  promises  for  a  time.  Race- 
horses disappeared  from  the  Woodview  stables.  It 
was  not  until  after  the  birth  of  both  his  children  that 
he  entered  one  of  his  hunters  in  the  hunt  steeplechase. 


ESTHER     WATERS  39 

Soon  after  the  racing-  stable  was  again  in  full  swing  at 
Woodview.  Tears  there  were,  and  some  family  dis- 
union, but  time  extorts  concessions  from  all  of  us. 
Mrs.  Barfield  had  ceased  to  quarrel  with  her  husband 
on  the  subject  of  his  race-horses,  and  he  in  his  turn  did 
not  attempt  to  restrict  her  in  the  exercise  of  her  reli- 
gion. She  attended  prayer-meetings  when  her  soul 
moved  her,  and  read  the  Scriptures  when  and  where 
she  pleased. 

It  was  one  of  her  practices  to  have  the  women -serv-\L_^ 
ants  for  half-an-hour  every  Sunday  afternoon  in  the     1 
library,  and  instruct  them  in  the  life  of  Christ.     Mrs.     ■ 
Barfield 's  goodness  was  even  as  a  light  upon  her  little 
oval  face — reddish  hair  growing  thin  at  the  parting  and 
smoothed  back  above  the  ears,  as  in  an  old  engraving. 
Although  nearly  fifty,  her  figure  was  slight  as  a  young 
girl's.      Esther   was    attracted  by  the  magnetism    of 
racial  and  religious  affinities ;  and  when  their  eyes  met 
at   prayers  there    was    acknowledgment   of    religious 
kinship.     A  glow  of  happiness  filled  Esther's  soul,  for 
she  knew ;  she  was  no  longer  wholly  among  strangers ; 
she  knew  they  were  united — she  and  her  mistress—, 
under  the  sweet  dominion  of  Christ.     To  look  at  Mrs. ' 
Barfield  filled  her,  somehow,  with  recollections  of  her 
pious  childhood ;  she  saw  herself  in  the  old  shop,  mov- 
ing again  in  an  atmosphere  of  prayer,  listening  to  the 
beautiful  story,  in  the  annunciation  of  which  her  life 
had  grown  up.     She  answered  her  mistress's  questions 
in  sweet  light-heartedness  of  spirit,  pleasing  her  with 
her  knowledge  of  the  Holy  Book.      But  in  turn  the 
servants  had  begun  to  read  verses  aloud  from  the  New 
Testament,  and  Esther  saw  that  her  secret  would  be 
torn  from  her.      Sarah  had  read   a   verse,   and   Mrs. 


40  ESTHER    WATERS 

Barfield  had  explained  it,  and  now  Margaret  was 
reading.  Esther  listened,  thinking  if  she  might  plead 
illness  and  escape  from  the  room ;  but  she  could  not 
summon  sufficient  presence  of  mind,  and  while  she  was 
still  agitated  and  debating  with  herself,  Mrs.  Barfield 
called  to  her  to  continue.  She  hung  down  her  head, 
suffocated  with  the  shame  of  the  exposure,  and  when 
Mrs.  Barfield  told  her  again  to  continue  the  reading 
Esther  shook  her  head. 

"Can  you  not  read,  Esther?"  she  heard  a  kind  voice 
saying;  and  the  sound  of  this  voice  loosed  the  feelings 
long  pent  up,  and  the  girl,  giving  way  utterly,  burst 
into  passionate  weeping.  She  was  alone  with  her 
suffering,  conscious  of  nothing  else,  until  a  kind  hand 
led  her  from  the  room,  and  this  hand  soothed  away  the 
bitterness  of  the  tittering  which  reached  her  ears  as  the 
door  closed.  It  was  hard  to  persuade  her  to  speak, 
but  even  the  first  words  showed  that  there  was  more 
on  the  girl's  heart  than  could  be  told  in  a  few  minutes. 
Mrs.  Barfield  determined  to  take  the  matter  at  once  in 
hand ;  she  dismissed  the  other  servants  and  returned 
to  the  library  with  Esther,  and  in  that  dim  room  of 
little  green  sofas,  bookless  shelves,  and  bird-cages,  the 
/  ^1  women — mistress  and  maid — sealed  the  bond  of  a 
V  v'  friendship  which  was  to  last  for  life. 

Esther  told  her  mistress  everything— the  work  that 
Mrs.  Latch  required  of  her,  the  persecution  she 
received  from  the  other  servants,  principally  because 
'  of  her  religion.  In  the  course  of  the  narrative  allusion 
was  made  to  the  race-horses,  and  Esther  saw  on  Mrs. 
Barfield 's  face  a  look  of  grief,  and  it  was  clear  to  what 
cause  Mrs.  Barfield  attributed  the  demoralisation  of 
her  household. 


ESTHER    WATERS  4i 

"I  will  teach  you  how  to  read,  Esther.  Every  Sun- 
day after  our  Bible  instruction  you  shall  remain  when 
the  others  have  left  for  half-an-hour.  It  is  not  diffi- 
cult; you  will  soon  learn." 

Henceforth,  every  Sunday  afternoon,  Mrs.  Barfield 
devoted  half-an-hour  to  the  instruction  of  her  kitchen- 
maid.  These  half-hours  were  bright  spots  of  happi- 
ness in  the  serving-girl's  weeks  of  work — happiness 
that  had  been  and  would  be  again.  But  although 
possessing  a  clear  intdligence,  Esther  did  not  make 
much  progress,  nor  did  her  diligence  seem  to  help  her. 
MrsTBarfield  was  puzzled  by  her  pupil's  slowness;  she 
ascribed^ it  to  her  own  inaptitude  to  teach  and  the  little 
time  for  lessons.  Esther's  powerlessness  to  put  sylla- 
bles together,  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  words,  was  very 
marked.  Strange  it  was,  no  doubt,  but  all  that  con- 
cerned the  printed  page  seemed  to  embarrass  and  elude 
her, 


IV. 

Esther's  position  in  Woodview  was  now  assured,  and 
her  fellow-servants  recognised  the  fact,  though  they 
liked  her  none  the  better  for  it.  Mrs.  Latch  still  did 
what  she  could  to  prevent  her  from  learning  her  trade, 
but  she  no  longer  attempted  to  overburden  her  with 
work.  Of  Mr.  Leopold  she  saw  almost  as  little  as  she  did 
of  the  people  upstairs.  He  passed  along  the  passages 
or  remained  shut  up  in  his  pantry.  Ginger  used  to  go 
there  to  smoke;  and  when  the  door  stood  ajar  Esther 
saw  his  narrow  person  seated  on  the  edge  of  the  table, 
his  leg  swinging.  Among  the  pantry  people  Mr.  Leo- 
pold's erudition  was  a  constant  subject  of  admiration. 
His  reminiscences  of  the  races  of  thirty  years  ago  were 
full  of  interest;  he  had  seen  the  great  horses  whose 
names  live  in  the  stud-book,  the  horses  the  Gaffer  had 
owned,  had  trained,  had  ridden,  and  he  was  full  of 
anecdote  concerning  them  and  the  Gaffer.  Praise  of  Jhis 
father's  horsemanship  always  caused  a  cloud  to  gather 
on  Ginger's  face,  and  when  he  left  the  pantry  Swindles 
chuckled.  "Whenever  I  wants  to  get  a  rise  out  of 
Ginger  I  says,  'Ah,  we  shall  never  see  another  gentle- 
man jock  who  can  use  the  whip  at  a  finish  like  the 
Governor  in  his  best  days.  *  ' ' 

Everyone  delighted  in  the  pantry,  and  to  make  Mr. 
Leopold  comfortable  Mr.  Swindles  used  to  bring  in  the 
wolf-skin  rug  that  went  out  with  the  carriage,  and  wrap 
it  round  Mr.  Leopold's  wooden  armchair,  and  the  sallow 

42 


ESTHER    WATERS  43 

little  man  would  curl  himself  up,  and,  smoking  his  long 
clay,  discuss  the  weights  of  the  next  big  handicap.  If 
Ginger  contradicted  him  he  would  go  to  the  press  and 
extract  from  its  obscurity  a  package  of  Be/l's  Life  or  a 
file  of  the  Sportsman. 

Mr.  Leopold's  press!  For  forty  years  no  one  had 
looked  into  that  press.  Mr.  Leopold  guarded  it  from 
every  gaze,  but  it  seemed  to  be  a  much-varied  reposi- 
tory from  which,  if  he  chose,  he  could  produce  almost 
any  trifle  that  might  be  required.  It  seemed  to  com- 
bine the  usefulness  of  a  hardware  shop  and  a  drug 
store. 

The  pantry  had  its  etiquette  and  its  discipline. 
Jockey  boys  were  rarely  admitted,  unless  with  the 
intention  of  securing  their  services  for  the  cleaning  of 
boots  or  knives.  William  was  very  proud  of  his  right 
of  entry.  For  that  half-hour  in  the  pantry  he  would 
willingly  surrender  the  pleasure  of  walking  in  the 
drove-way  with  Sarah.  But  when  Mrs.  Latch  learnt 
that  he  was  there  her  face  darkened,  and  the  noise  she 
then  made  about  the  range  with  her  saucepans  was 
alarming.  Mrs.  Barfield  shared  her  cook's  horror  of 
the  pantry,  and  often  spoke  of  Mr.  Leopold  as  "that 
little  man."  Although  outwardly  the  family  butler, 
he  had  never  ceased  to  be  the  Gaffer's  private  servant; 
he  represented  the  old  days  of  bachelorhood.  Mrs. 
Barfield  and  Mrs.  Latch  both  disliked  him.  Had  it 
not  been  for  his  influence  Mrs.  Barfield  felt  sure  her 
husband  would  never  have  returned  to  his  vice.  Had 
it  not  been  for  Mr.  Leopold  Mrs.  Latch  felt  that  her 
husband  would  never  have  taken  to  betting.  Legends 
and  mystery  had  formed  around  Mr.  Leopold  and 
his  pantry,  and  in  Esther's  unsophisticated  mind  this 


/ 


44  ESTHER    WATERS 

little  room,  with  its  tobacco  smoke  and  glasses  on 
i  the  table,  became  a  symbol  of  all  that  was  wicked  and 
[  dangerous ;  and  when  she  passed  the  door  she  closed 
[  her  ears  to  the  loud  talk  and  instinctively  lowered 
I  her  eyes. 
*"' '  The  simplest  human  sentiments  were  abiding  prin- 


ciples in  Esther — love  of  God,  and  love  of  God  in  the 
home.  But  above  this  Protestantism  was  human 
nature ;  and  at  this  time  Esther  was,  above  all  else,  a 
young  girl.  Her  twentieth  year  thrilled  within  her ; 
;,  she  was  no  longer  weary  with  work,  and  new,  rich 
f  blood  filled  her  veins.  She  sang  at  her  work,  glad- 
dened by  the  sights  and  sounds  of  the  yard ;  the  young 
rooks  cawing  lustily  in  the  evergreens,  the  gardener 
passing  to  and  fro  with  plants  in  his  hands,  the  white 
cats  licking  themselves  in  the  sun  or  running  to  meet 
the  young  ladies  who  brought  them  plates  of  milk. 
Then  the  race-horses  were  always  going  to  or  coming 
from  the  downs.  Sometimes  they  came  in  so  covered 
with  white  mud  that  part  of  their  toilette  was  accom- 
plished in  the  yard ;  and  from  her  kitchen  window  she 
could  see  the  beautiful  creature  haltered  to  the  hook 
fixed  in  the  high  wall,  and  the  Httle  boy  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves and  hitched-up  trousers,  not  a  bit  afraid,  but 
shouting  and  quieting  him  into  submission  with  the 
stick  when  he  kicked  and  bit,  tickled  by  the  washing 
brush  passing  under  the  belly.  Then  the  wrestling, 
sparring,  ball-playing  of  the  lads  when  their  work  was 
done,  the  pale,  pathetic  figure  of  the  Demon  watching 
them.  He  was  about  to  start  for  Portsdale  and  back, 
wrapped,  as  he  would  put  it,  in  a  red-hot  scorcher  of 
\  an  overcoat. 
\       Esther  often  longed  for  a  romp  with  these  boys ;  she 


ESTHER     WATERS  45 

was  now  prime  favourite  with  them.  Once  they 
caught  her  in  the  hay  yard,  and  fine  sport  it  was  in  the 
warm  hay  throwing  each  other  over.  Sometimes  her 
wayward  temper  would  get  the  better  of  her,  but  her 
momentar}^  rage  vanished  at  the  sound  of  laughter. 
And  after  their  tussling  they  would  walk  a  little  while 
pensively,  until  perhaps  one,  with  an  adroit  trip, 
would  send  the  other  rolling  over  on  the  grass,  and 
then,  with  wild  cries,  they  would  run  down  the  drove- 
way.  Then  there  was  the  day  w^hen  the  Wool-gatherer 
told  her  he  was  in  love,  and  what  fun  they  had  had, 
and  how^  well  she  had  led  him  into  belief  that  she  was 
jealous !  She  had  taken  a  rope  as  if  she  were  going  to 
hang  herself,  and  having  fastened  it  to  a  branch,  she 
had  knelt  down  as  if  she  were  saying  her  prayers. 
The  poor  Wool-gatherer  could  stand  it  no  longer;  he 
had  rushed  to  her  side,  swearing  that  if  she  would 
promise  not  to  hang  herself  he  w^ould  never  look  at 
another  girl  again.  The  other  boys,  who  had  been 
crouching  in  the  drove- way,  rose  up.  How  they  did 
chaff  the  Wool-gatherer!  He  had  burst  into  tears, 
and  Esther  had  felt  sorry  for  him,  and  almost  inclined 
to  marry  him  out  of  pity  for  his  forlorn  condition.  \ 

Her  life  grew  happier  and  happier.  She  forgot  that  ' 
Mrs.  Latch  would  not  teach  her  how^  to  make  jellies, 
and  had  grown  somewhat  used  to  Sarah's  allusions  to 
her  ignorance.  She  was  still  very  poor,  had  not  suffi- 
cient clothes,  and  her  life  was  full  of  little  troubles; 
but  there  were  compensations.  It  was  to  her  that 
Mrs.  Barfield  always  came  when  she  wanted  anything 
in  a  hurry,  and  Miss  Mary,  too,  seemed  to  prefer  to 
apply  to  Esther  when  she  wanted  milk  for  her  cats  or 
bran  and  oats  for  her  rabbits. 


46  ESTHER    WATERS 

The  Gaffer  and  his  race-horses,  the  Saint  and  her 
greenhouse — so  went  the  stream  of  life  at  Woodview. 
What  few  visitors  came  were  entertained  by  Miss 
Mary  in  the  drawing-room  or  on  the  tennis  lawn. 
Mrs.  Barfield  saw  no  one.  She  desired  to  remain  in 
her  old  gown — an  old  thing  that  her  daughter  had 
discarded  long  ago — pinned  up  around  her,  and  on  her 
head  an  old  bonnet  with  a  faded  poppy  hanging  from 
the  crown.  In  such  attire  she  wished  to  be  allowed  to 
trot  about  to  and  fro  from  her  greenhouse  to  her  pot- 
ting-shed,  watering,  pruning,  and  syringing  her  plants. 
These  plants  were  dearer  than  all  things  to  her  except 
her  children ;  she  seemed,  indeed,  to  treat  them  as  if 
they  were  children,  and  with  the  sun  pouring  through 
the  glass  down  on  her  back  she  would  sit  freeing 
them  from  devouring  insects  all  the  day  long.  She 
would  carry  can  after  can  of  water  up  the  long  path 
and  never  complain  of  fatigue.  She  broke  into  com- 
plaint only  when  Miss  Mary  forgot  to  feed  her  pets,  of 
which  she  had  a  great  number — rabbits,  and  cats,  and 
rooks,  and  all  the  work  devolved  upon  her.  She  could 
not  see  these  poor  dumb  creatures  hungry,  and  would 
trudge  to  the  stables,  coming  back  laden  with  trusses 
of  hay.  But  it  was  sometimes  more  than  a  pair  of 
hands  could  do,  and  she  would  send  Esther  with  scraps 
of  meat  and  bread  and  milk  to  the  unfortunate  rooks 
that  Mary  had  so  unmercifully  forgotten.  ''I'll  have 
no  more  pets,"  she'd  say;  "Miss  Mary  won't  look  after 
them,  and  all  the  trouble  falls  upon  me.  vSee  these 
poor  cats,  how  they  come  mewing  round  my  skirts.  * ' 
She  loved  to  expatiate  on  her  inexhaustible  affection 
for  dumb  animals,  and  she  continued  an  anecdotal 
discourse  till,  suddenly  wearying  of  it,  she  would  break 


ESTHER    WATERS  47 

off   and  speak  to  Esther    about   Barnstaple   and   the 
Brethren. 

The  Saint  loved  to  hear  Esther  tell  of  her  father  and 
the  little  shop  in  Barnstaple,  of  the  prayer-meetings 
and  the  simple  earnestness  and  narrowness  of  the  faith 
of  those  good  Brethren.  Circumstances  had  effaced, 
though  they  had  not  obliterated,  the  once  sharply- 
marked  confines  of  her  religious  habits.  Her  religion 
was  like  a  garden — a  little  less  sedulously  tended  than 
of  yore,  but  no  whit  less  fondly  loved;  and  while 
listening  to  Esther's  story  she  dreamed  her  own  early 
life  over  again,  and  paused,  laying  down  her  watering- 
can,  penetrated  with  the  happiness  of  gentle  memories. 
So  Esther's  life  grew  and  was  fashioned;  so  amid  the 
ceaseless  round  of  simple  daily  occupations  mistress 
and  maid  learned  to  know  and  to  love  one  another,  and 
became  united  and  strengthful  in  the  tender  and 
ineffable  sympathies  of  race  and  religion. 


)\ 


The  summer  drowsed,  baking  the  turf  on  the  hills, 
and  after  every  gallop  the  Gaffer  passed  his  fingers 
along  the  fine  legs  of  the  crack,  in  fear  and  apprehen- 
sion lest  he  should  detect  any  swelling.  William  came 
every  day  for  news.  He  had  five  shillings  on;  he 
stood  to  win  five  pounds  ten — quite  a  little  fortune — 
and  he  often  stopped  to  ask  Esther  if  there  was  any 
news  as  he  made  his  way  to  the  pantry.  She  told  him 
that  so  far  as  she  knew  Silver  Braid  was  all  right,  and 
continued  shaking  the  rug. 

"You'll  never  get  the  dust  out  of  that  rug,"  he  said 
at  last;  "here,  give  it  to  me."  She  hesitated,  then 
gave  it  him,  and  he  beat  it  against  the  brick  wall. 
"There,"  he  said,  handing  it  back  to  her,  "that's  how 
I  beats  a  mat;  you  won't  find  much  dust  in  it  now." 

"Thank  you.  .  .  .  Sarah  went  by  an  hour  and  a 
half  ago." 

"Ah,   she  must  have  gone  to  the   Gardens.      You 
have  never  been  to  those  gardens,  have  you?     Danc- 
ing-hall, theatre,  sorcerers — every  blessed  thing.     But 
you're  that  religious,  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  come?" 
.  *'It  is_only  the  way  you  are  brought  up." 

"Well,  will  you  come?" 

"I  don't  think  I  should  like  those  Gardens.  .  .  . 
But  I  daresay  they  are  no  worse  than  any  other  place. 
I've  heard  so  much  since  I  was  here,  that  really " 

"That  really  what?" 

48 


ESTHER     WATERS  49 

"That  sometimes  it  seems  useless  like  to  be  par- 
ticular." 

''Of  course— all  rot.  Well,  will  you  come  next  Sun- 
day?" 

"Certainly  not  on  Sunday." 

The  Gaffer  had  engaged  him  as  footman:  his  livery 
would  be  ready  by  Saturday,  and  he  would  enter  serv- 
ice on  Monday  week.  This  reminded  them  that  hence- 
forth they  would  see  each  other  every  day,  and, 
speaking  of  the  pain  it  would  give  his  mother  when  he 
came  running  downstairs  to  go  out  with  the  carriage, 
he  said — 

"It  was  always  her  idea  that  I  shouldn't  be  a  serv- 
ant, but  I  believe  in  doing  what  you  gets  most  coin  for 
doing.  I  should  like  to  have  been  a  jockey,  and  I 
could  have  ridden  well  enough — the  Gaffer  thought 
better  at  one  time  of  my  riding  than  he  did  of  Gin- 
ger's. But  I  never  had  any  luck;  when  I  was  about 
fifteen  I  began  to  grow.  ...  If  I  could  have 
remained  like  the  Demon " 

Esther  looked  at  him,  wondering  if  he  were  speak- 
ing seriously,  and  really  wished  away  his  splendid 
height  and  shoulders. 

A  few  days  later  he  tried  to  persuade  her  to  take  a 
ticket  in  a  shilling  sweepstakes  which  he  was  getting 
up  among  the  out  and  the  indoor  servants.  She 
pleaded  poverty — her  wages  would  not  be  due  till  the 
end  of  August.  But  William  offered  to  lend  her  the 
money,  and  he  pressed  the  hand  containing  the  bits  of 
paper  on  which  were  written  the  horses'  names  so 
insinuatingly  upon  her  that  a  sudden  impulse  to  oblige 
him  came  over  her,  and  before  she  had  time  to  think-  ./ 
she  had  put  her  hand  in  the  hat  and  taken  a  number. 


50  ESTHER     WATERS 

''Come,  none  of  your  betting  and  gambling  in  my 
kitchen,"  said  Mrs.  Latch,  turning  from  her  work. 
"Why  can't  you  leave  that  innocent  girl  alone?" 

"Don't  oe  that  disagreeable,  mother;  it  ain't  bet- 
ting, it's  a  sweepstakes." 

"It  is  all  the  same,"  muttered  Mrs.  Latch;  "it 
always  begins  that  way,  and  it  goes  on  from  bad  to 
worse.  I  never  saw  any  good  come  from  it,  and 
Heaven  knows  I've  seen  enough  misfortune." 

Margaret  and  Sarah  paused,  looking  at  her  open- 
mouthed,  a  little  perplexed,  holding  the  numbers  they 
had  drawn  in  both  hands.  Esther  had  not  unfolded 
hers.  She  looked  at  Mrs.  Latch  and  regretted  having 
taken  the  ticket  in  the  lottery.  She  feared  jeers  from 
Sarah,  or  from  Grover,  who  had  just  come  in,  for  her 
inability  to  read  the  name  of  the  horse  she  had  drawn. 
Seeing  her  dilemma,  William  took  her  paper  from  her. 

"Silver  Braid.  .  .  .  by  Jingo!  She  has  got  the 
right  one." 

At  that  moment  the  sound  of  hoofs  was  heard  in  the 
yard,  and  the  servants  flew  to  the  window. 

"He'll  win,"  cried  William,  leaning  over  the 
women's  backs,  waving  his  bony  hand  to  the  Demon, 
who  rode  past  on  Silver  Braid.  "The  Gaffer  will  bring 
him  to  the  post  as  fit  as  a  fiddle. " 

"I  think  he  will,"  said  Mr.  Leopold.  "The  rain  has 
done  us  a  lot  of  good;  he  was  beginning  to  go  a  bit 
short  a  week  ago.  We  shall  want  some  more  rain.  I 
should  like  to  see  it  come  down  for  the  next  week  or 
more." 

Mr.  Leopold's  desires  looked  as  if  they  were  going  to 
be  fulfilled.  The  heavens  seemed  to  have  taken  the 
fortunes  of  the  stable  in  hand.     Rain  fell  generally  in 


ESTHER     WATERS  $1 

the  afternoon  and  night,  leaving  the  mornings  fine, 
and  Silver  Braid  went  the  mile  gaily,  becoming  harder 
and  stronger.  And  in  the  intermittent  swish  of  show- 
ers blown  up  from  the  sea,  Woodview  grew  joyous, 
and  a  conviction  of  ultimate  triumph  gathered  and 
settled  on  every  face  except  Mrs.  Barfield's  and  Mrs. 
Latch's.  And  askance  they  looked  at  the  triumphant 
little  butler.  He  became  more  and  more  the  topic  of 
conversation.  He  seemed  to  hold  the  thread  of  their 
destiny  in  his  press.  Peggy  was  especially  afraid  of 
him. 

And,  continuing  her  confidences  to  the  under-house- 
maid,  the  young  lady  said,  "I  like  to  know  things  for 
the  pleasure  of  talking  about  them,  but  he  for  the 
pleasure  of  holding  his  tongue."  Peggy  was  Miss 
Margaret  Barfield,  a  cousin,  the  daughter  of  a  rich^ 
brewer.  "If  he  brings  in  your  letters  in  the  morning"^ 
he  hands  them  to  you  just  as  if  he  knew  whom  they 
are  from.  Ugly  little  beast ;  it  irritates  me  when  he 
comes  into  the  room. 

"He  hates  women.  Miss;  he  never  lets  us  near  his 
pantry,  and  he  keeps  William  there  talking  racing." 

"Ah,  William  is  very  different.  He  ought  never  to 
have  been  a  servant.  His  family  was  once  quite  as 
good  as  the  Barfields. " 

"So  I  have  heard.  Miss.  But  the  world  is  that  full 
of  ups  and  downs  you  never  can  tell  who  is  who.  But 
we  all  likes  William  and  'ates  that  little  man  and  his 
pantry.     Mrs.  Latch  calls  him  the  'evil  genius.'  " 

A  furtive  and  clandestine  little  man,  ashamed  of  his 
women-folk  and  keeping  them  out  of  sight  as  much  as 
possible.  His  wife  a  pale,  dim  woman,  tall  as  he  was 
short,  preserving  still  some  of  the  graces  of  the  lady's- 


52  ESTHER     WATERS 

maid,  shy  either  by  nature  or  by  the  severe  rule  of  her 
lord,  always  anxious  to  obliterate  herself  against  the 
hedges  when  you  met  her  in  the  lane  or  against  the 
pantry  door  when  any  of  the  family  knocked  to  ask  for 
hot  water,  or  came  with  a  letter  for  the  post.  By 
nature  a  bachelor,  he  was  instinctively  ashamed  of  his 
family,  and  when  the  wearj'-looking  wife,  the  thin, 
shy  girl,  or  the  corpulent,  stupid-faced  son  were  with 
him  and  he  heard  steps  outside,  he  would  come  out  like 
a  little  wasp,  and,  unmistakably  resenting  the  intru- 
sion, would  ask  what  was  wanted. 

If  it  were  Ginger,  Mr.  Leopold  would  say,  "Can  I  do 
anything  for  you,  Mr.  Arthur?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  thank  you;  I  only  thought  that " 

and  Ginger  would  invent  some  paltry  excuse  and  slink 
away  to  smoke  elsewhere. 

Every  day,  a  little  before  twelve,  Mr.  Leopold  went 
out  for  his  morning  walk;  every  day  if  it  were  fine  you 
would  meet  him  at  that  hour  in  the  lane  either  com- 
ing from  or  going  to  Shoreham.  For  thirty  years  he 
had  done  his  little  constitutional,  always  taking  the 
same  road,  always  starting  within  a  few  minutes  of 
twelve,  always  returning  in  time  to  lay  the  cloth  for 
lunch  at  half-past  one.  The  hour  between  twelve  and 
one  he  spent  in  the  little  cottage  which  he  rented  from 
the  squire  for  his  wife  and  children,  or  in  the  "Red 
Lion,"  where  he  had  a  glass  of  beer  and  talked  with 
Watkins,  the  bookmaker. 

"There  he  goes,  off  to  the  'Red  Lion,'  "  said  Mrs. 
Latch.  "They  try  to  get  some  information  out  of  him, 
but  he's  too  sharp  for  them,  and  he  knows  it;  that's 
w^hat  he  goes  there  for — just  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
them  swallow  the  lies  he  tells  them.     ...     He  has 


ESTHhR     WATERS  53 

been  telling  them  lies  about  the  horses  for  the  last 
twenty  years,  and  still  he  gets  them  to  believe  what  he 
says.  It  is  a  cruel  shame!  It  was  the  lies  he  told 
poor  Jackson  about  Blue  Beard  that  made  the  poor 
man  back  the  horse  for  all  he  was  worth. ' ' 

**And  the  horse  didn't  win?" 

"Win!  The  master  didn't  even  intend  to  run  him, 
and  Jackson  lost  all  he  had,  and  more.  He  went  down 
to  the  river  and  drowned  himself.  John  Randal  has 
that  man's  death  on  his  conscience.  But  his  con- 
science don't  trouble  him  much ;  if  it  did  he'd  be  in  his 
grave  long  ago.  Lies,  lies,  nothing  but  lies!  But  I 
daresay  I'm  too  'ard  on  him;  isn't  lies  our  natural  lot? 
What  is  servants  for  but  to  lie  when  it  is  in  their 
master's  interest,  and  to  be  a  confidential  servant  is  to 
be  the  Prince  of  liars!" 

"Perhaps  he  didn't  know  the  *orse  was  scratched." 

"I  see  you  are  falling  in  nicely  with  the  lingo  of  the 
trade." 

"Oh,"  replied  Esther,  laughing;  "one  never  hears 
anything  else ;  one  picks  it  up  without  knowing.  Mr. 
Leopold  is  very  rich,  so  they  say.  The  boys  tell  me 
that  he  won  a  pile  over  the  City  and  Suburban,  and  has 
thousands  in  the  bank. ' ' 

"So  some  says;  but  who  knows  what  he  has?  One 
hears  of  the  winnings,  but  they  say  very  little  about 
the  losings."   r  ^i;^,   UUV) 


VI. 

The  boys  were  playing  ball  in  the  stables,  but  she 
did  not  feel  as  if  she  wanted  to  romp  with  them. 
There  was  a  stillness  and  a  sweetness  abroad  which 
penetrated  and  absorbed  her.  She  moved  towards  the 
paddock  gate ;  the  pony  and  the  donkey  came  towards 
her,  and  she  rubbed  their  muzzles  in  turn.  It  was  a 
pleasure  to  touch  anything,  especially  anything  alive. 
She  even  noticed  that  the  elm  trees  were  strangely  tall 
and  still  against  the  calm  sky,  and  the  rich  odour  of 
some  carnations  which  came  through  the  bushes  from 
the  pleasure-ground  excited  her ;  the  scent  of  earth  and 
leaves  tingled  in  her,  and  the  cawing  of  the  rooks  com- 
ing home  took  her  soul  away  skyward  in  an  exquisite 
longing;  she  was,  at  the  same  time,  full  of  a  romantic 
/  love  for  the  earth,  and  of  a  desire  to  mix  herself  with 
the  innermost  essence  of  things.  The  beauty  of  the 
-evening  and  the  sea  breeze  instilled  a  sensation  of 
immortal  health,  and  she  wondered  if  a  young  man 
came  to  her  as  young  men  came  to  the  great  ladies  in 
Sarah's  books,  how  it  would  be  to  talk  in  the  dusk, 
seeing  the  bats  flitting  and  the  moon  rising  through 
the  branches. 

The  family  was  absent  from  Woodview,  and  she  was 
free  to  enjoy  the  beauty  of  every  twilight  and  every 
rising  moon  for  still  another  week.  But  she  wearied 
for  a  companion.  Sarah  and  Grover  were  far  too 
grand   to   walk   out   with   her;    and   Margaret  had  a 

54 


/ 


ESTHER    WATERS  55 

young  man  who  came  to  fetch  her,  and  in  their  room 
at  night  she  related  all  he  had-  said.  But  for  Esther 
there  was  nothing  to  do  all  the  long  summer  evenings 
but  to  sit  at  the  kitchen  window  sewing.  Her  hands 
fell  on  her  lap,  and  her  heart  heaved  a  sigh  of  weari- 
ness. In  all  this  world  there  was  nothing  for  her  to  do 
but  to  continue  her  sewing  or  to  go  for  a  walk  on  the 
hill.  She  was  tired  of  that  weary  hill !  But  she  could 
not  sit  in  the  kitchen  till  bedtime.  She  might  meet 
the  old  shepherd  coming  home  with  his  sheep,  and  she 
put  a  piece  of  bread  in  her  pocket  for  his  dogs  and 
strolled  up  the  hill-side.  Margaret  had  gone-  down  to 
the  Gardens.  One  of  these  days  a  young  man  would 
come  to  take  her  out.  What  would  he  be  like?  She 
laughed  the  thought  away.  She  did  not  think  that  any 
young  man  would  bother  much  about  her.  Happen- 
ing at  that  moment  to  look  round,  she  saw  a  man  com- 
ing through  the  hunting  gate.  His  height  and 
shoulders  told  her  that  he  was  William.  ''Trying  to 
find  Sarah,"  she  thought.  "I  must  not  let  him  think 
I  am  waiting  for  him."  She  continued  her  walk, 
wondering  if  he  were  following,  afraid  to  look  round. 
At  last  she  fancied  she  could  hear  footsteps;  her  heart 
beat  faster.     He  called  to  her. 

"I  think  Sarah  has  gone  to  the  Gardens,"  she  said, 
turning  round. 

"You  always  keep  reminding  me  of  Sarah.  There's 
nothing  between  us;  anything  there  ever  was  is  all 
off  long  ago.     .     .     .     Are  you  going  for  a  walk?" 

She  was  glad  of  the  chance  to  get  a  mouthful  of 
fresh  air,  and  they  went  tow^ards  the  hunting  gate. 
William  held  it  open  and  she  passed  through. 

The  plantations  were  enclosed  by  a  wooden  fence, 


56  ESTHER    WATERS 

and  beyond  them  the  bare  downs  rose  hill  after  hill. 
On  the  left  the  land  sloped  into  a  shallow  valley  sown 
with  various  crops;  and  the  shaws  about  Elliot's  farm 
were  the  last  trees.  Beyond  the  farmhouse  the  downs 
ascended  higher  and  higher,  treeless,  irreclaimable, 
scooped  into  long  patriarchal  solitudes,  thrown  into 
\vild  crests. 

There  was  a  smell  of  sheep  in  the  air,  and  the  flock 
trotted  past  them  in  good  order,  followed  by  the  shep- 
herd, a  huge  hat  and  a  crook  in  his  hand,  and  two 
shaggy  dogs  at  his  heels.  A  brace  of  partridges  rose 
out  of  the  sainfoin,  and  flew  down  the  hills;  and 
watching  their  curving  flight  Esther  and  William  saw 
the  sea  under  the  sun-setting,  and  the  string  of  coast 
towns. 

"A  lovely  evening,  isn't  it?" 

Esther  acquiesced;  and  tempted  by  the  warmth  of 
the  grass  they  sat  down,  and  the  mystery  of  the  twi- 
light found  way  into  their  consciousness. 

"We  shan't  have  any  rain  yet  awhile." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"I'll  tell  you,"  William  answered,  eager  to  show  his 
superior  knowledge.  "Look  due  south-west,  straight 
through  that  last  dip  in  that  line  of  hills.  Do  you  see 
anything?" 

"No,  I  can  see  nothing,"  said  Esther,  after  straining 
her  eyes  for  a  few  moments. 

"I  thought  not.  .  .  .  Well,  if  it  was  going  to 
rain  you  would  see  the  Isle  of  Wight. ' ' 

For  something  to  say,  and  hoping  to  please,  Esther 
asked  him  where  the  race-course  was. 

"There,  over  yonder.  I  can't  show  you  the  start,  a 
long  way  behind  that  hill,  Portslade  way;    then  they 


ESTHER     WATERS  57 

come  right  along  by  that  gorse  and  finish  tip  by  Truly 
barn — you  can't  see  Truly  barn  from  here,  that's 
Thunder's  barrow  barn;  they  go  quite  half  a  mile 
farther." 

"And  does  all  that  land  belong  to  the  Gaffer?" 

"Yes,  and  a  great  deal  more,  too;  but  this  down  land 
isn't  worth  much — not  more  than  about  ten  shillings 
an  acre." 

"And  how  many  acres  are  there?" 

"Do  you  mean  all  that  we  can  see?" 

"Yes." 

"The  Gaffer's  property  reaches  to  Southwick  Hill, 
and  it  goes  north  a  long  way.  I  suppose  you  don't 
know  that  all  this  piece,  all  that  lies  between  us  and 
that  barn  yonder,  once  belonged  to  my  family." 

"To  your  family?" 

"Yes,  the  Latches  were  once  big  swells;  in  the  time 
of  my  great-grandfather  the  Barfields  could  not  hold 
their  heads  as  high  as  the  Latches.  My  great-grand- 
father had  a  pot  of  money,  but  it  all  went." 

"Racing?" 

"A  good  bit,  I've  no  doubt.  A  rare  *ard  liver,  cock- 
fighting,  'unting,  'orse-racing  from  one  year's  end  to 
the  other.  Then  after  'im  came  my  grandfather;  he 
went  to  the  law,  and  a  sad  mess  he  made  of  it — went 
stony-broke  and  left  my  father  without  a  sixpence; 
that  is  why  mother  didn't  want  me  to  go  into  livery. 
The  family  'ad  been  coming  down  for  generations,  and 
mother  thought  that  I  was  bom  to  restore  it ;  and  so  I 
was,  but  not  as  she  thought,  by  carrying  parcels  up 
and  down  the  King's  Road." 

Esther  looked  at  William  in  silent  admiration,  and, 
feeling  that  he  had  secured  an  appreciative  listener,  he 


58  ESTHER    WATERS 

continued  his  monologue  regarding  the   wealth   and 

rank  his  family  had  formerly  held,  till  a  heavy  dew 

forced  them  to  their  feet.     In  front  of  them  was  the 

moon,    and  out  of   the  forlorn   sky  looked  down   the 

misted  valleys ;  the  crests  of  the  hills  were  still  touched 

with  light,  and  lights  flew  from  coast  town  to  coast 

/  town,  weaving  a  luminous  garland. 

/       The  sheep  had  been  folded,  and  seeing  them  lying  in 

/     the  greyness  of  this  hill-side,   and  beyond  them  the 

massive  moonlit  landscape  and  the  vague  sea,  Esther 

suddenly  became  aware,  as  she  had  never  done  before, 

of  the  exceeding  beauty  of  the  world.     Looking  up  in 

William's  face,  she  said — 

•'Oh,  how  beautiful!" 

As  they  descended  the  drove-way  their  feet  raised 
the  chalk,  and  William  said — 

"This  is  bad  for  ^Silver  Braid;  we  shall  want  some 
more  rain  in  a  day  or  two.  .  .  .  Let's  come  for  a 
walk  round  the  farm,"  he  said  suddenly.  "The  farm 
belongs  to  the  Gaffer,  but  he's  let  the  Lodge  to  a 
young  fellow  called  Johnson.  He's  the  chap  that 
Peggy  used  to  go  after — there  was  awful  rows  about 
that,  and  worse  when  he  forestalled  the  Gaffer  about 
Egmont." 

The  conversation  wandered  agreeably,  and  they 
became  more  conscious  of  each  other.  He  told  her  all 
he  knew  about  the  chap  who  had  jilted  Miss  Mary,  and 
the  various  burlesque  actresses  at  the  Shoreham  Gar- 
dens who  had  captivated  Ginger's  susceptible  heart. 
While  listening  she  suddenly  became  aware  that  she 
had  never  been  so  happy  before.  Now  all  she  had 
endured  seemed  accidental;  she  felt  that  she  had 
entered  into  the  permanent ;  and  in  the  midst  of  vague 


ESTHER     WATERS  59 

but  intense  sensations  William  showed  her  the  pigeon- 
house  with  all  the  blue  birds  dozing  on  the  tiles,  a 
white  one  here  and  there.  They  visited  the  work- 
shop, the  forge,  and  the  old  cottages  where  the  bailiff 
and  the  shepherd  lived ;  and  all  this  inanimate  nature 
— the  most  insignificant  objects — seemed  inspired, 
seemed  like  symbols  of  her  emotion. 

They  left*  the  farm  and  wandered  on  the  high  road 
until  a  stile  leading  to  a  cornfield  beguiled  and  then 
delayed  their  steps.  , 

The  silence  of  the  moonlight  was  clear  and  \ 
immense;  and  they  listened  to  the  trilling  of  the 
nightingale  in  the  copse  hard  by.  First  they  sought  to 
discover  the  brown  bird  in  the  branches  of  the  poor 
hedge,  and  then  the  reason  of  the  extraordinary  emo- 
tion in  their  hearts.  It  seemed  that  all  life  was  beat- 
ing in  that  moment,  and  they  were  as  it  were  inflamed 
to  reach  out  their  hands  to  life  and  to  grasp  it  together. 
Even  William  noticed  that.  And  the  moon  shone  on 
the  mist  that  had  gathered  on  the  long  marsh  lands 
of  the  foreshore.  Beyond  the  trees  the  land 
wavered  out  into  down  land,  the  river  gleamed  and  / 
intensely. 

This  moment  was  all  the  poetry  of  their  lives.  The 
striking  of  a  match  to  light  his  pipe,  which  had  gone 
out,  put  the  music  to  flight,  and  all  along  the  white 
road  he  continued  his  monologue,  interrupted  only  by 
IFe  necessity  of  puffing  at  his  pipe. 

"Mother  says  that  if  I  had  twopisnce  worth  of  pride 
in  me  I  wouldn't  have  consented  to  put  on  the  livery; 
but  what  I  says  to  mother  is,  'What's  the  use  of  having 
pride  if  you  haven't  money?'  I  tells  her  that  I  am 
rotten  with  pride,  but  my  pride  is  to  make  money.     I 


6o  ESTHER     WATERS 

can't  see  that  the  man  what  is  willing  to  remain  pool 

all  his  life  has  any  pride  at  all.     .      .     .     But,  Lord!  I 

have  argued  with   mother  till  I'm  sick;    she  can  see 

nothing  further  than  the  livery;    that's  what  women 

are — they  are    that    short-sighted.     .     .     .     A  lot  of 

good  it  would  have  done  me  to  have  carried  parcels  all 

my  life,  and  when  I  could  do  four  mile  an  hour  no  more, 

to  be  turned  out  to  die  in  the  ditch  and  be  buried  by  the 

;    parish.     'Not  good  enough,'   says  I.     'If  that's  your 

i    pride,  mother,  you  may  put  it  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it, 

'i    and  as  you  'aven't  got  a  pipe,  perhaps  behind  the  oven 

will  do  as  well,' — that's  what  I  said  to  her.     I  saw  well 

i    enough  there  was  nothing  for  me  but  service,  and  I 

;    means  to  stop  here  until  I  can  get  on  three  or  four 

good  things  and  then  retire  into  a  nice  comfortable 

J    public-house  and  do  my  own  betting." 

''         "You  would  give  up  betting  then?" 

"I'd  give  up  backing  'orses,  if  you  mean  that.     .     . 
What  I  should  like  would  be  to  get  on  to  a  dozen  good 
\     things  at  long  prices — half-a-dozen  like  Silver  Braid 
\^  would   do   it.      For   a   thousand    or   fifteen    hundred 
\  pounds  I  could  have  the  'Red  Lion,'  and  just  inside  my 
,  own  bar  I  could  do  a  hundred-pound  book  on  all  the 
big  races. ' ' 
•    •"Esther  listened,  hearing  interminable  references  to 
j  jockeys,  publicans,  weights,  odds,  and  the  certainty,  if 
I  he  had  the  "Red  Lion,"  of  being  able  to  get  all  Joe 
Walker's  betting  business  away  from  him.     Allusions 
to  the  police,  and  the  care  that  must  be  taken  not  to 
bet  with  anyone  who  has  not  been  properly  introduced, 
frightened  her ;  but  her  fears  died  in  the  sensation  of 
his  arm  about  her  waist,  and  the  music  that  the  strik- 
ing of  a  match  had  put  to  flight  had  begun  again  in 


ESTHER    WATERS 


6i 


the  next  plantation,  and  it  began  again  in  their  hearts.^ 
But  if  he  were  going  to  marry  Sarah!  The  idea 
amused  him;  he  laughed  loudly,  and  they  walked  up 
the  avenue,  his  face  bent  over  hers. 


VII. 

The  Barfield  calculation  was  that  they  had  a  stone  in 
hand.  Bayleaf,  Mr.  Leopold  argued,  would  be  backed 
to  win  a  million  of  money  if  he  were  handicapped  in 
the  race  at  seven  stone;  and  Silver  Braid,  who  had 
been  tried  again  with  Bayleaf,  and  with  the  same  re- 
sult as  before,  had  been  let  off  with  only  six  stone. 

More  rain  had  fallen,  the  hay-crop  had  been  irre- 
trievably ruined,  the  prospects  of  the  wheat  harvest 
were  jeopardized,  but  what  did  a  few  bushels  of  wheat 
matter?  Another  pound  of  muscle  in  those  superb 
hind-quarters  was  worth  all  the  corn  that  could  be 
grown  between  here  and  Henfield.  Let  the  rain  come 
down,  let  every  ear  of  wheat  be  destroyed,  so  long  as 
/  those  delicate  fore-legs  remained  sound.  These  were 
the  ethics  that  obtained  at  Woodview,  and  within  the 
V  last  few  days  showed  signs  of  adoption  by  the  little 
town  and  not  a  few  of  the  farmers,  grown  tired  of  see- 
ing their  crops  rotting  on  the  hill-sides.  The  fever  of 
the  gamble  was  in  eruption,  breaking  out  in  unex- 
pected places — the  station-master,  the  porters,  the 
flj^men,  all  had  their  bit  on,  and  notwithstanding  the 
enormous  favouritism  of  two  other  horses  in  the  race-^ 
Prisoner  and  Stoke  Newington — Silver  Braid  had 
advanced  considerably  in  the  betting.  Reports  of 
trials  won  had  reached  Brighton,  and  not  more  than 
five-and-twenty  to  one  could  now  be  obtained. 

The  discovery  that  the  Demon  had  gone  up  several 

62 


ESTHER     WATERS  ^3 

pounds  in  weight  had  introduced  the  necessary  alloy 
into  the  mintage  of  their  happiness;  the  most  real 
consternation  prevailed,  and  the  strictest  investigation 
was  made  as  to  when  and  how  he  had  obtained  the 
quantities  of  food  required  to  produce  such  a  mass  of 
adipose  tissue.  Then  the  Gaffer  had  the  boy  upstairs 
and  administered  to  him  a  huge  dose  of  salts,  seeing 
him  swallow  every  drop ;  and  when  the  effects  of  the 
medicine  had  worn  off  he  was  sent  for  a  walk  to 
Portslade  in  two  large  overcoats,  and  was  accompanied 
by  William,  whose  long  legs  led  the  way  so  effectively. 
On  his  return  a  couple  of  nice  feather  beds  were 
ready,  and  Mr.  Leopold  and  Mr.  Swindles  themselves 
laid  him  between  them,  and  when  they  noticed  that  he 
was  beginning  to  cease  to  perspire  Mr.  Leopold  made 
him  a  nice  cup  of  hot  tea. 

"That's  the  way  the  Gaffer  used  to  get  the  flesh  off 
in  the  old  days  when  he  rode  the  winner  at  Liver- 
pool." 

"It's  the  Demon's  own  fault,"  said  Mr.  Swindles; 
"if  he  hadn't  been  so  greedy  he  wouldn't  have  had  to 
sweat,  and  we  should  'ave  been  spared  a  deal  of  bother 
and  anxiety." 

"Greedy!"  murmured  the  little  boy,  in  whom  the 
warm  tea  had  induced  a  new  perspiration;  "I  haven't 
had  what  you  might  call  a  dinner  for  the  last  three 
months.     I  think  I'll  chuck  the  whole  thing." 

"Not  until  this  race  is  over,"  said  Mr.  Swindles. 
"Supposing  I  was  to  pass  the  warming-pan  down 
these  'ere  sheets.  What  do  you  say,  Mr.  Leopold? 
They  are  beginning  to  feel  a  bit  cold. ' ' 

"Cold!      I   'ope  you'll  never  go  to   a   'otter  place 
For  God's  sake,  Mr.  Leopold,  don't  let  him  come  near 
4 


64  ESTHER     WATERS 

me  with  the  warming-pan,  or  else  he'll  melt  the  little 
flesh  that's  left  off  me." 

"You  'ad  better  not  make  such  a  fuss,"  said  Mr. 
Leopold;  "if  you  don't  do  what  you  are  told,  you'll 
have  to  take  salts  again  and  go  for  another  walk  with 
William." 

"If  we  don't  warm  up  them  sheets  'e'll  dry  up, "  said 
Mr.  Swindles. 

"No,  I  won't;  I'm  teeming. " 

"Be  a  good  boy,  and  you  shall  have  a  nice  cut  of 
mutton  when  you  get  up,"  said  Mr.  Leopold. 

"How  much?     Two  slices?" 

"Well,  you  see,  we  can't  promise;  it  all  depends  on 
how  much  has  come  off,  and  'aving  once  got  it  hoff,  we 
don't  want  to  put  it  on  again. " 

"I  never  did  'ear  such  rot,"  said  Swindles.  "In  my 
time  a  boy's  feelings  weren't  considered — one  did  what 
one  considered  good  for  them. ' ' 

Mr.  Leopold  strove  to  engage  the  Demon's  attention 
with  compliments  regarding  his  horsemanship  in  the 
City  and  Sub.  w^hile  Mr.  Swindles  raised  the  bed- 
clothes. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Swindles,  you  are  burning  me." 

"For  'eaven's  sake  don't  let  him  start  out  from 
under  the  bed  like  that!  Can't  3^er  'old  him?  Burn- 
ing you !  I  never  even  touched  you  with  it ;  it  was  the 
sheet  that  you  felt. ' ' 

"Then  the  sheet  is  as  'ot  as  the  bloody  fire.  Will 
yer  leave  off?" 

"What!  a  Demon  like  you  afraid  of  a  little  touch  of 
'eat;  wouldn't  'ave  believed  it  unless  I  'ad  'eard  it 
with  m)'  own  ears,"  said  Mr.  Leopold.  "Come,  now, 
do  yer  want  to  ride  the  crack  at  Goodwood  or  do  yer 


ESTHER     WATERS  65 

not?  If  you  do,  remain  quiet,  and  let  us  finish  taking 
off  the  last  couple  of  pounds." 

"It  is  the  last  couple  of  pounds  that  takes  it  out  of 
one;  the  first  lot  comes  off  jest  like  butter,"  said  the 
boy,  rolling  out  of  the  way  of  the  pan.  "I  know  what 
it  will  be;  I  shall  be  so  weak  that  I  shall  just  ride  a 
stinking  bad  race." 

Mr.  Leopold  and  Mr.  Swindles  exchanged  glances. 
It  was  clear  they  thought  that  there  was  something  in 
the  last  words  of  the  fainting  Demon,  and  the  pan  was 
withdrawn.  But  when  the  boy  was  got  into  the  scale 
again  it  was  found  that  he  was  not  yet  nearly  the 
right  weight,  and  the  Gaffer  ordered  another  effort  to 
be  made.  The  Demon  pleaded  that  his  feet  were 
sore,  but  he  was  sent  off  to  Portslade  in  charge  of  the 
redoubtable  William. 

And  as  the  last  pounds  came  off  the  Demon's  little 
carcass  Mr.  Leopold's  face  resumed  a  more  tranquil 
expression.  It  began  to  be  whispered  that  instead  of 
hedging  any  part  of  his  money  he  would  stand  it  all 
out,  and  one  day  a  market  gardener  brought  up  word 
that  he  had  seen  Mr.  Leopold  going  into  Brighton. 

"Old  Watkins  isn't  good  enough  for  him,  that's 
about  it.  If  Silver  Braid  wins,  Woodview  will  see 
very  little  more  of  Mr.  Leopold.  He'll  be  for  buying 
one  of  them  big  houses  on  the  sea  road  and  keeping  his 
own  trap." 


VIII. 

The  great  day  was  now  fast  approaching",  and  the 
Gaffer  had  promised  to  drive  his  folk  in  a  drag  to 
Goodwood.  No  more  rain  was  required,  the  colt's  legs 
remained  sound,  and  three  days  of  sunshine  would 
make  all  the  difEerence  in  their  sum  of  happiness.  In 
the  kitchen  Mrs.  Latch  and  Esther  had  been  busy  for 
some  time  with  chickens  and  pies  and  jellies,  and  in 
the  passage  there  were  cases  packed  with  fruit  and 
wine.  The  dressmaker  had  come  from  Worthing,  and 
for  several  days  the  young  ladies  had  not  left  her. 
And  one  fine  morning,  very  early — about  eight  o'clock 
— the  wheelers  were  backed  into  the  drag  that  had 
come  from  Brighton,  and  the  yard  resounded  with  the 
blaring  of  the  horn.  Ginger  was  practising  under  his 
sister's  window. 

"You'll  be  late!     You'll  be  late!" 

With  the  exception  of  two  young  gentlemen,  who 
had  come  at  the  invitation  of  the  young  ladies,  it  was 
quite  a  family  party.  Miss  Mary  sat  beside  her  father 
on  the  box,  and  looked  very  charming  in  white  and 
blue.  Peggy's  black  hair  seemed  blacker  than  ever 
under  a  white  silk  parasol,  which  she  waved  negli- 
gently above  her  as  she  stood  up  calling  and  talking 
to  everyone  until  the  Gaffer  told  her  angrily  to  sit 
down,  as  he  was  going  to  start.  Then  William  and 
the  coachman  let  go  the  leaders'  heads,  and  running 
side  by  side  swung  themselves  into  their  seats.     At  the 

66 


ESTHER     WATERS  67 

same  moment  a  glimpse  was  caught  of  Mr.  Leopold's 
sallow  profile  amid  the  boxes  and  the  mackintoshes 
that  filled  the  inside  of  the  coach. 

"Oh,  William  did  look  that  handsome  in  those  beau- 
tiful new  clothes!  .  .  .  Everyone  said  so — Sarah 
and  Margaret  and  Miss  Grover.  I'm  sorry  you  did  not 
come  out  to  see  him." 

Mrs.  Latch  made  no  answer,  and  Esther  remem- 
bered how  she  hated  her  son  to  wear  livery,  and 
thought  that  she  had  perhaps  made  a  mistake  in  say- 
ing that  Mrs.  Latch  should  have  come  out  to  see  him. 
"Perhaps  this  will  make  her  disHke  me  again," 
thought  the  girl.  Mrs.  Latch  moved  about  rapidly, 
and  she  opened  and  closed  the  oven ;  then,  raising  her 
eyes  to  the  window  and  seeing  that  the  other  women 
were  still  standing  in  the  yard  and  safely  out  of  hear- 
ing, she  said — 

"Do  you  think  that  he  has  bet  much  on  this  race?" 

"Oh,  how  should  I  know,  Mrs.  Latch?  .  .  .  But 
the  horse  is  certain  to  win. ' ' 

"Certain  to  win!  I  have  heard  that  tale  before; 
they  are  always  certain  to  win.  So  they  have  won  you 
round  to  their  way  of  thinking,  have  they?"  said  Mrs. 
Latch,  straightening  her  back. 

' '  I  know  very  well  indeed  that  it  is  not  right  to  bet ; 
but  what  can  I  do,  a  poor  girl  like  me?  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  William  I  never  would  have  taken  a  number 
in  that  sweepstakes. '  * 

"Do  you  like  him  very  much,  then?" 

"He  has  been  very  kind  to  me — he  was  kind  when — " 

"Yes,  I  know,  when  I  was  unkind.  I  was  unkind  to 
you  when  you  first  came.  You  don't  know  all.  I  was 
much  troubled  at  that  time,  and  somehow  I  did  not — . 


68  ESTHER    WATERS 

But  there  is  no  ill-feeling?  .  .  .  I'll  make  it  up 
to  you — I'll  teach  you  how  to  be  a  cook." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Latch,  I  am  sure " 

"Never  mind  that.  When  you  went  out  to  walk 
with  him  the  other  night,  did  he  tell  you  that  he  had 
many  bets  on  the  race?" 

"He  talked  about  the  race,  like  everyone  else,  but 
he  did  not  tell  me  what  bets  he  had  on." 

"No,  they  never  do  do  that.  .  .  .  But  you'll  not 
tell  him  that  I  asked  you?" 

"No,  Mrs.  Latch,  I  promise." 

"It  would  do  no  good,  he'd  only  be  angry;  it  would 
only  set  him  against  me.  I  am  afraid  that  nothing 
will  stop  him  now.  Once  they  get  a  taste  for  it  it  is 
like  drink.  I  wish  he  was  married,  that  might  get  him 
out  of  it.  Some  woman  who  would  have  an  influence 
over  him,  some  strong-minded  woman.  I  thought 
once  that  you  were  strong-minded " 

At  that  moment  Sarah  and  Grover  entered  the 
kitchen  talking  loudly.  They  asked  Mrs.  Latch  how 
soon  they  could  have  dinner — the  sooner  the  better, 
for  the  Saint  had  told  them  that  they  were  free  to  go 
out  for  the  day.  They  were  to  try  to  be  back  before 
eight,  that  was  all.  Ah !  the  Saint  was  a  first-rate  sort. 
She  had  said  that  she  did  not  want  anyone  to  attend  on 
her.  She  would  get  herself  a  bit  of  lunch  in  the  dining- 
room.  Mrs.  Latch  allowed  Esther  to  hurry  on  the 
dinner,  and  by  one  o'clock  they  had  all  finished. 
Sarah  and  Margaret  were  going  into  Brighton  to  do 
some  shopping,  Grover  was  going  to  Worthing  to 
spend  the  afternoon  with  the  wife  of  one  of  the  guards 
of  the  Brighton  and  South  Coast  Railway.  Mrs. 
Latch  went  upstairs  to  lie  down.     So  it  grew  lonelier 


ESTHER     WATERS  69, 

and  lonelier  in  the  kitchen.  Esther's  sewing  fell  out 
of  her  hands,  and  she  wondered  what  she  should  do. 
She  thought  that  she  might  go  down  to  the  beach,  and 
soon  after  she  put  on  her  hat  and  stood  thinking, 
remembering  that  she  had  not  been  by  the  sea,  that 
she  had  not  seen  the  sea  since  she  was  a  little  girl. 
But  she  remembered  the  tall  ships  that  came  into  the 
harbour,  sail  falling  over  sail,  and  the  tall  ships  that 
floated  out  of  the  harbour,  sail  rising  over  sail,  catch- 
ing the  breeze  as  they  went  aloft — she  remem.bered 
them. 

A  suspension  bridge,  ornamented  with  straight- 
tailed  lions,  took  her  over  the  weedy  river,  and  having 
crossed  some  pieces  of  rough  grass,  she  climbed  the 
shingle  bank.  The  heat  rippled  the  blue  air,  and  the 
sea,  like  an  exhausted  caged  beast,  licked  the  shingle. 
Sea-poppies  bloomed  under  the  wheels  of  a  decaying 
bathing-machine,  and  Esther  wondered.  But  the  sea 
here  was  lonely  as  a  prison,  and,  seeing  the  treeless 
coast  with  its  chain  of  towns,  her  thoughts  suddenly 
reverted  to  William.  She  wished  he  were  with  her, 
and  for  pleasant  contemplation  she  thought  of  that 
happy  evening  when  she  saw  him  coming  through  the 
hunting  gate,  when,  his  arm  about  her,  William  had 
explained  that  if  the  horse  won  she  would  take  seven 
shillings  out  of  the  sweepstakes.  She  knew  now  that 
William  did  not  care  about  Sarah;  and  that  he  cared 
for  her  had  given  a  sudden  and  unexpected  meaning 
to  her  existence.  She  lay  on  the  shingle,  her  day- 
dream becoming  softer  and  more  delicate  as  it  rounded 
into  summer  sleep. 

And  when  the  light  awoke  her  she  saw  flights  of 
white  clouds — white  up  above,  rose-coloured  as  they 


70  ESTHER     WATERS 

approached  the  west;  and  when  she  turned,  a  tall, 
melancholy  woman. 

"Good  evening,  Mrs.  Randal,"  said  Esther,  glad  to 
find  someone  to  speak  to.     "I've  been  asleep." 

"Good  evening.  Miss.  You're  from  Woodview,  I 
think?" 

"Yes,  I'm  the  kitchen-maid.  They've  gone  to  the 
races;  there  was  nothing  to  do,  so  I  came  down  here." 

Mrs.  Randal's  lips  moved  as  if  she  were  going  to  say 
something.  But  she  did  not  speak.  Soon  after  she 
rose  to  her  feet.  "I  think  that  it  must  be  getting  near 
tea-time ;  I  must  be  going.  You  might  come  in  and 
have  a  cup  of  tea  with  me,  if  you're  not  in  a  hurr}^ 
back  to  Woodview, ' ' 

Esther  was  surprised  at  so  much  condescension,  and 
in  silence  the  two  women  crossed  the  meadow^s  that  lay 
between  the  shingle  bank  and  the  river.  Trains  were 
passing  all  the  while,  scattering,  it  seemed,  in  their 
noisy  passage  over  the  spider-legged  bridge,  the 
news  from  Goodwood.  The  news  seemed  to  be  borne 
along  shore  in  the  dust,  and,  as  if  troubled  by  presci- 
ence of  the  news,  Mrs.  Randal  said,  as  she  unlocked 
the  cottage  door — 

"It  is  all  over  now.  The  people  in  those  trains 
know  well  enough  which  has  won." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  they  know,  and  somehow  I  feel  as  if 
I  knew  too.     I  feel  as  if  Silver  Braid  had  won." 

Mrs.  Randal's  home  was  gaunt  as  herself.  Every- 
thing looked  as  if  it  had  been  scraped,  and  the  spare 
furniture  expressed  a  meagre,  lonely  life.  She 
dropped  a  plate  as  she  laid  the  table,  and  stood 
pathetically  looking  at  the  pieces.  When  Esther  asked 
for  a  teaspoon  she  gave  way  utterly. 


ESTHER     WATERS  7^ 

"I  haven't  one  to  give  you;  I  had  forgotten  that 
they  were  gone.  I  should  have  remembered  and  not 
asked  you  to  tea. ' ' 

"It  don't  matter,  Mrs.  Randal;  I  can  stir  up  my  tea 
with  anything — a  knitting-needle  will  do  very  well — " 

"I  should  have  remembered  and  not  asked  you  back 
to  tea;  but  I  was  so  miserable,  and  it  is  so  lonely  sit- 
ting in  this  house,  that  I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  .  .^ 
Talking  to  you  saved  me  from  thinking,  and  I  did  not 
want  to  think  until  this  race  was  over.  If  Silver  Braid 
is  beaten  we  are  ruined.  Indeed,  I  don't  know  what 
will  become  of  us.  For  fifteen  years  I  have  borne 
up ;  I  have  lived  on  little  at  the  best  of  times,  and  very 
often  have  gone  without ;  but  that  is  nothing  compared 
to  the  anxiety — to  see  him  come  in  with  a  white  face, 
to  see  him  drop  into  a  chair  and  hear  him  say,  'Beaten 
a  head  on  the  post,'  or,  'Broke  down,  otherwise  he 
would  have  won  in  a  canter. '  I  have  always  tried  to 
be  a  good  wife  and  tried  to  console  him,  and  to  do  the 
best  when  he  said,  *I  have  lost  half  a  year's  wages,  I 
don't  know  how  we  shall  pull  through. '  I  have  borne 
with  ten  thousand  times  more  than  I  can  tell  you. 
The  sufferings  of  a  gambler's  wife  cannot  be  told. 
Tell  me,  what  do  you  think  my  feelings  must  have 
been  when  one  night  I  heard  him  calling  me  out  of  my 
sleep,  when  I  heard  him  say,  'I  can't  die,  Annie,  with- 
out bidding  you  good-bye.  I  can  only  hope  that  you 
will  be  able  to  pull  through,  and  I  know  that  the 
Gaffer  will  do  all  he  can  for  you,  but  he  has  been  hit 
awful  hard  too.  You  mustn't  think  too  badly  of  me, 
Annie,  but  I  have  had  such  a  bad  time  that  I  couldn't 
put  up  with  it  any  longer,  and  I  thought  the  best  thing 
I  could  do  would  be  to  go. '     That's  just  how  he  talked 


72  ESTHER    WATERS 

— nice  words  to  hear  your  husband  speak  in  your  ear 
through  the  darkness!  There  was  no  time  to  send  for 
the  doctor,  so  I  jumped  out  of  bed,  put  the  kettle  on, 
and  made  him  drink  glass  after  glass  of  salt  and 
water.     At  last  he  brought  up  the  laudanum." 

Esther  listened  to  the  melancholy  woman,  and 
remembered  the  little  man  whom  she  saw  every  day 
so  orderly,  so  precise,  so  sedate,  so  methodical,  so 
unemotional,  into  whose  life  she  thought  no  faintest 
emotion  had  ever  entered — and  this  was  the  truth. 

"So  long  as  I  only  had  m.yself  to  think  of  I  didn't 
mind;  but  now  there  are  the  children  growing  up. 
He  should  think  of  them.  Heaven  only  knows  what 
will  become  of  them.  .  .  .  John  is  as  kind  a  hus- 
band as  ever  was  if  it  weren't  for  that  one  fault;  but 
he  cannot  resist  having  something  on  any  more  than  a 
drunkard  can  resist  the  bar-room." 

"Winner,  winner,  winner  of  the  Stewards'  Cup!" 

The  women  started  to  their  feet.  When  they  got 
into  the  street  the  boy  was  far  away;  besides,  neither 
had  a  penny  to  pay  for  the  paper,  and  they  wandered 
about  the  town  hearing  and  seeing  nothing,  so  nervous 
were  they.  At  last  Esther  proposed  to  ask  at  the 
"Red  Lion"  who  had  won.  Mrs.  Randal  begged  her 
to  refrain,  urging  that  she  was  unable  to  bear  the  tid- 
ings should  it  be  evil. 

"Silver  Braid,"  the  barman  answered.  The  girl 
rushed  through  the  doors.  "It  is  all  right,  it  is  all 
right ;  he  has  won ! ' ' 

Soon  after  the  little  children  in  the  lane  were  calling 
forth  "vSilver  Braid  won!"  And  overcome  by  the 
excitement  Esther  walked  along  the  sea-road  to  meet 
the  drag.     She  walked  on  and  on  until  the  sound  of 


ESTHER     WATERS  73 

the  horn  came  through  the  crimson  evening  and  she 
saw  the  leaders  trotting  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  Ginger 
was  driving,  and  he  shouted  to  her,  "He  won!"  The 
Gaffer  waved  the  horn  and  shouted,  "He  won!" 
Peggy  waved  her  broken  parasol  and  shouted,  "He 
won!"  Esther  looked  at  William.  He  leaned  over 
the  back  seat  and  shouted,  "He  won!"  She  had  for- 
gotten all  about  late  dinner.  What  would  Mrs.  Latch 
say?     On  such  a  day  as  this  she  would  say  nothing. 


IX. 

Nearly  everything  came  down  untouched.  Eating 
and  drinking  had  been  in  progress  almost  all  day  on 
the  course,  and  Esther  had  finished  washing  up  before 
nine,  and  had  laid  the  cloth  in  the  servants'  hall  for 
supper.  But  if  little  was  eaten  upstairs,  plenty  was 
eaten  downstairs ;  the  mutton  was  finished  in  a  trice, 
and  Mrs.  Latch  had  to  fetch  from  the  larder  what 
remained  of  a  beefsteak  pudding.  Even  then  they 
were  not  satisfied,  and  fine  inroads  were  made  into  a 
new  piece  of  cheese.  Beer,  according  to  orders,  was 
served  without  limit,  and  four  bottles  of  port  were  sent 
down  so  that  the  health  of  the  horse  might  be  ade- 
quately drunk. 

While  assuaging  their  hunger  the  men  had 
exchanged  many  allusive  remarks  regarding  the 
Demon's  bad  ending,  how  nearly  he  had  thrown  the 
race  away;  and  the  meal  being  now  over,  and  there 
being  nothing  to  do  but  to  sit  and  talk,  Mr.  Leopold, 
encouraged  by  William,  entered  on  an  elaborate  and 
technical  account  of  the  race.  The  women  listened, 
playing  with  a  rind  of  cheese,  glancing  at  the  cheese 
itself,  wondering  if  they  could  manage  another  slice, 
and  the  men  sipping  their  port  wine,  pufiing  at  their 
pipes,  William  listening  most  avidly  of  all,  enjoying 
each  sporting  term,  and  ingeniously  reminding  Mr. 
Leopold  of  some  detail  whenever  he  seemed  disposed 
to    shorten    his     narrative.       The    criticism    of     the 

74 


ESTHER     WATERS  75 

Demon's  horsemanship  took  a  long  while,  for  by  a 
variety  of  suggestive  remarks  William  led  Mr.  Leo- 
pold into  reminiscences  of  the  skill  of  certain  famous 
jockeys  in  the  first  half  of  the  century.  These  digres- 
sions wearied  Sarah  and  Grover,  and  their  thoughts 
wandered  to  the  dresses  that  had  been  worn  that  day, 
and  the  lady's-maid  remembered  she  would  hear  all 
that  interested  her  that  night  in  the  young  ladies' 
rooms.  At  last,  losing  all  patience,  Sarah  declared 
that  she  didn't  care  what  Chifney  had  said  when  he 
just  managed  to  squeeze  his  horse's  head  in  front  in 
the  last  dozen  yards,  she  wanted  to  know  what  the 
Demon  had  done  to  so  nearly  lose  the  race — had  he 
mistaken  the  winning-post  and  pulled  up?  William 
looked  at  her  contemptuously,  and  would  have 
answered  rudely,  but  at  that  moment  Mr.  Leopold 
began  to  tell  the  last  instructions  that  the  Gaffer  had 
g^ven  the  Demon.  The  orders  were  that  the  Demon 
should  go  right  up  to  the  leaders  before  they  reached 
the  half-mile,  and  remain  there.  Of  course,  if  he  found 
that  he  was  a  stone  or  more  in  hand,  as  the  Gaffer 
expected,  he  might  come  away  pretty  well  as  he  liked, 
for  the  greatest  danger  was  that  the  horse  might  get 
shut  out  or  might  show  temper  and  turn  it  up. 

*'Well,"  said  Mr.  Leopold,  "there  were  two  false 
starts,  and  Silver  Braid  must  have  galloped  a  couple 
of  'undred  yards  afore  the  Demon  could  stop  him. 
There  wasn't  twopence-halfpenny  worth  of  strength  in 
him — pulling  off  those  three  or  four  pounds  pretty  well 
finished  him.  He'll  never  be  able  to  ride  that  weight 
again.  .  .  .  He  said  afore  starting  that  he  felt 
weak ;  you  took  him  along  too  smartly  from  Portslade 
the  last  time  you  went  there. " 


76  ESTHER    WATERS 

"When  he  went  by  himself  he'd  stop  playing  mar- 
bles with  the  boys  round  the  Southwick  public-house." 

"If  there  had  been  another  false  start  I  think  it 
would  have  been  all  up  with  us.  The  Gaffer  was 
quite  pale,  and  he  stood  there  not  taking  his  glasses 
from  his  eyes.  There  were  over  thirty  of  them,  so  you 
can  imagine  how  hard  it  was  to  get  them  into  line. 
However,  at  the  third  attempt  they  were  got  straight 
and  away  they  came,  a  black  line  stretching  right 
across  the  course.  Presently  the  black  cap  and  jacket 
came  to  the  front,  and  not  very  long  after  a  murmur 
w^ent  round,  'Silver  Braid  wins.'  Never  saw  any- 
thing like  it  in  all  my  life.  He  was  three  lengths 
a'ead,  and  the  others  were  pulling  off.  'Damn  the 
boy;  he'll  win  by  twenty  lengths,'  said  the  Gaffer, 
without  removing  his  glasses.  But  when  within  a  few 
yards  of  the  stand " 

At  that  moment  the  bell  rang.  Mr.  Leopold  said, 
"There,  they  are  wanting  their  tea;  I  must  go  and 
get  it." 

"Drat  their  tea,"  said  Margaret;  "they  can  wait. 
Finish  up ;  tell  us  how  he  won. ' ' 

Mr.  Leopold  looked  round,  and  seeing  every  eye 
fixed  on  him  he  considered  how  much  remained  of  the 
story,  and  with  quickened  speech  continued,  "Well, 
approaching  the  stand,  I  noticed  that  Silver  Braid  was 
not  going  quite  so  fast,  and  at  the  very  instant  the 
Demon  looked  over  his  shoulder,  and  seeing  he  was 
losing  ground  he  "took  up  the  whip.  But  the  moment 
he  struck  him  the  horse  swerved  right  across  the 
course,  right  under  the  stand,  running  like  a  rat  from 
underneath  the  whip.  The  Demon  caught  him  one 
across  the  nose  with  his  left  hand,  but  seeing  what 


ESTHER    WATERS  77 

was  'appeningf,  the  Tinman,  who  was  on  Bullfinch,  sat 
down  and  began  riding.  I  felt  as  if  there  was  a  lump 
of  ice  down  my  back, ' '  and  Mr.  Leopold  lowered  his 
voice,  and  his  face  became  grave  as  he  recalled  that 
perilous  moment.  "I  thought  it  was  all  over,"  he 
said,  *'and  the  Gaffer  thought  the  same;  I  never  saw  a 
man  go  so  deadly  pale.  It  was  all  the  work  of  a 
moment,  but  that  moment  was  more  than  a  year — at 
least,  so  it  seemed  to  me.  Well,  about  half-way  up 
the  rails  the  Tinman  got  level  with  the  Demon.  It 
was  ten  to  one  that  Silver  Braid  would  turn  it  up,  or 
that  the  boy  wouldn't  'ave  the  strength  to  ride  out  so 
close  a  finish  as  it  was  bound  to  be.  I  thought  then 
of  the  way  you  used  to  take  him  along  from  Portslade, 
and  I'd  have  given  something  to've  put  a  pound  or 
two  of  flesh  into  his  thighs  and  arms.  The  Tinman  was 
riding  splendid,  getting  every  ounce  and  something 
more  out  of  Bullfinch.  The  Demon,  too  weak  to  do 
much,  was  sitting  nearly  quite  still.  It  looked  as  if  it 
was  all  up  with  us,  but  somehow  Silver  Braid  took  to 
galloping  of  his  own  accord,  and  'aving  such  a  mighty 
lot  in  'and  he  won  on  the  post  by  a  'ead — a  short  'ead. 
.  .  .  I  never  felt  that  queer  in  my  life,  and  the 
Gaffer  was  no  better ;  but  I  said  to  him,  just  afore  the 
numbers  went  up,  'It  is  all  right,  sir,  he's  just  done 
it,'  and  when  the  right  number  went  up  I  thought 
everything  was  on  the  dance,  going  for  swim  like. 
By  golly,  it  was  a  near  thing!"  At  the  end  of  a  long 
silence  Mr.  Leopold  said,  shaking  himself  out  of  his 
thoughts,  **Now  I  must  go  and  get  their  tea." 

Esther  sat  at  the  end  of  the  table ;  her  cheek  leaned 
on  her  hand.  By  turning  her  eyes  she  could  see  Wil- 
liam.    Sarah  noticed  one  of  these  stealthy  backward 


78  ESTHER    WATERS 

glances  and  a  look  of  anger  crossed  her  face,  and  call- 
ing to  William  she  asked  him  when  the  sweepstakes 
money  would  be  divided.  The  question  startled  Wil- 
liam from  a  reverie  of  small  bets,  and  he  answered 
that  there  was  no  reason  why  the  sweepstakes  money 
should  not  be  divided  at  once. 

"There  was  twelve.  That's  right,  isn't  it? — Sarah, 
Margaret,  Esther,  Miss  Grover,  Mr.  Leopold,  myself, 
the  four  boys,  and  Swindles  and  Wall.  .  .  .  Well, 
it  was  agreed  that  seven  should  go  to  the  first,  three  to 
the  second,  and  two  to  the  third.  No  one  got  the 
third  'orse,  so  I  suppose  the  two  shillings  that  would 
have  gone  to  him  'ad  better  be  given  to  the  first." 

"Given  to  the  first!  Why,  that's  Esther!  Why 
should  she  get  it?  .  .  .  What  do  you  mean?  No 
third !     Wasn't  Soap-bubble  third?" 

"Yes,  Soap-bubble  was  third  right  ^enough,  but  he 
wasn't  in  the  sweep." 

"And  why  wasn't  he?" 

"Because  he  wasn't  among  the  eleven  first  favour- 
ites. We  took  them  as  they  were  quoted  in  the  bet- 
ting list  published  in  the  Sportsman." 

"How  was  it,  then,  that  you  put  in  Silver  Braid?" 

"Yer  needn't  get  so  angry,  Sarah,  no  one's  cheat- 
ing; it  is  all  above  board.  If  you  don't  believe  us, 
you'd  better  accuse  us  straight  out." 

"What  I  want  to  know  is,  why  Silver  Braid  was 
included? — he  wasn't  among  the  eleven  first  favourites. " 

"Oh,  don't  be  so  stupid,  Sarah;  you  know  that  we 
agreed  to  make  an  exception  in  favour  of  our  own 
'orse — a  nice  sweep  it  would  'ave  been  if  we  'adn't 
included  Silver  Braid. ' ' 

"And    suppose,"    she    exclaimed,    tightening    her 


ESTHER    WATERS  79 

brows,  **that  Soap-bubble  had  won,  what  would  have 
become  of  our  money?" 

"It  would  have  been  returned — everyone  would 
have  got  his  shilling  back. '  * 

"And  now  I  am  to  get  three  shillings,  and  that  little 
Methodist  or  Plymouth  Brethren  there,  whatever  you 
like  to  call  her,  is  to  get  nine!"  said  Sarah,  with  a  light 
of  inspiration  flashing  through  her  beer-clouded  mind. 
*'Why  should  the  two  shillings  that  would  have  gone 
to  Soap-bubble,  if  anyone  'ad  drawn  'im,  go  to  the  first 
'orse  rather  than  to  the  second?" 

William  hesitated,  unable  for  the  moment  to  give  a 
good  reason  why  the  extra  two  shillings  should  be 
given  to  Silver  Braid;  and  Sarah,  perceiving  her 
advantage,  deliberately  accused  him  of  wishing  to 
favour  Esther. 

"Don't  we  know  that  you  went  out  to  walk  with  her, 
and  that  you  remained  out  till  nearly  eleven  at  night. 
That's  why  you  want  all  the  money  to  go  to  her.  You 
don't  take  us  for  a  lot  of  fools,  do  you?  Never  in  any 
place  I  ever  was  in  before  would  such  a  thing  be 
allowed — the  footman  going  out  with  the  kitchen- 
maid,  and  one  of  the  Dissenting  lot." 

"I  am  not  going  to  have  my  religion  insulted !  How 
dare  you?"  And  Esther  started  up  from  her  place;  but 
William  was  too  quick  for  her.     He  grasped  her  arm. 

"Never  mind  what  Sarah  says." 

"Never  mind  what  I  says!  ...  A  thing  like 
that,  who  never  was  in  a  situation  before;  no  doubt 
taken  out  of  some  'ouse.  Rescue  work,  I  think  they 
call  it " 

"She  shan't  insult  me— no,  she  shan't!"  said  Esther, 
.  tremulous  with  passion. 


8o  ESTHER    WATERS 

"A  nice  sort  of  person  to  insult!"  said  Sarah,  her 
arms  akimbo. 

'*Now  look  you  here,  Sarah  Tucker,"  said  Mrs. 
Latch,  starting  from  her  seat,  "I'm  not  going  to  see 
that  girl  aggravated,  so  that  she  may  do  what  she 
shouldn't  do,  and  give  you  an  opportunity  of  going  to 
the  missis  with  tales  about  her.  Come  away,  Esther, 
come  with  me.  Let  them  go  on  betting  if  they  will;  I 
never  saw  no  good  come  of  it. ' ' 

"That's  all  very  fine,  mother;  but  it  must  be  .settled, 
and  we  have  to  divide  the  money. ' ' 

"I  don't  want  your  money,"  said  Esther,  sullenly; 
"I  wouldn't  take  it." 

"What  blooming  nonsense!  You  must  take  your 
money.     Ah,  here's  Mr.  Leopold!  he'll  decide  it." 

Mr.  Leopold  said  at  once  that  the  money  that  under 
other  circumstances  would  have  gone  to  the  third 
horse  must  be  divided  between  the  first  and  second ; 
but  Sarah  refused  to  accept  this  decision.  Finally,  it 
was  proposed  that  the  matter  should  be  referred  to  the 
editor  of  the  Sportsman;  and  as  Sarah  still  remained 
deaf  to  argument,  William  offered  her  choice  between 
the  Sports7nan  and  the  Sporting  Life. 

"Look  here,"  said  William,  getting  between  the 
women;  "this  evening  isn't  one  for  fighting;  we  have 
all  won  our  little  bit,  and  ought  to  be  thankful.  The 
only  difference  between  you  is  two  shillings,  that  were 
to  have  gone  to  the  third  horse  if  anyone  had  drawn 
him.  Mr.  Leopold  says  it  ought  to  be  divided ;  you, 
Sarah,  won't  accept  his  decision.  We  have  offered  to 
write  to  the  Sportsman^  and  Esther  has  offered  to  give 
up  her  claim.  Now,  in  the  name  of  God,  tell  us  what 
io  you  want?" 


ESTHER     WATERS  81 

She  raised  some  wholly  irrelevant  issue,  and  after  a 
protracted  argument  with  William,  largely  composed 
of  insulting  remarks,  she  declared  that  she  wasn't 
going  to  take  the  two  shillings,  nor  yet  one  of  them ; 
let  them  give  her  the  three  she  had  won — that  was  all 
she  wanted.  William  looked  at  her,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and,  after  declaring  that  it  was  his  convic- 
tion that  women  wasn't  intended  to  have  nothing  to  do 
with  horse-racing,  he  took  up  his  pipe  and  tobacco- 
pouch. 

"Good-night,  ladies,  I  have  had  enough  of  you  for 
to-night ;  I  am  going  to  finish  my  smoke  in  the  pantry. 
Don't  scratch  all  your  'air  out;  leave  enough  for  me  to 
put  into  a  locket." 

When  the  pantry  door  was  shut,  and  the  men  had 
smoked  some  moments  in  silence,  William  said — 

' '  Do  you  think  he  has  any  chance  of  winning  the 
Chesterfield  Cup?" 

"He'll  win  in  a  canter  if  he'll  only  run  straight.  If 
I  was  the  Gaffer  I  think  I'd  put  up  a  bigger  boy. 
He'll  'ave  to  carry  a  seven-pound  penalty,  and  Johnnie 
Scott  could  ride  that  w^eight." 

The  likelihood  that  a  horse  will  bolt  with  one  jockey 
and  run  straight  with  another  was  argued  passion- 
ately, and  illustrated  with  interesting  reminiscences 
drawn  from  that  remote  past  when  Mr.  Leopold  was 
the  Gaffer's  private  servant — before  either  of  them  had 
married — when  life  was  composed  entirely  of  horse- 
racing  and  prize-fighting.  But  cutting  short  his  tale 
of  how  he  had  met  one  day  the  Birmingham  Chicken 
in  a  booth,  and,  not  knowing  who  he  was,  had  offered 
to  fight  him,  Mr.  Leopold  confessed  he  did  not  know 
how  to  act — he  had  a  bet  of  fifty  pounds  to  ten  shillings 


82  ESTHER     WATERS 

for  the  double  event;  should  he  stand  it  out  or  lay 
some  of  it  off?  William  thrilled  with  admiration. 
What  a  'ead,  and  who'd  think  it?  that  little  *ead, 
hardly  bigger  than  a  cocoanut !  What  a  brain  there 
was  inside !  Fifty  pounds  to  ten  shillings ;  should  he 
stand  it  out  or  hedge  some  of  it?  Who  could  tell 
better  than  Mr.  Leopold?  It  would,  of  course,  be  a 
pity  to  break  into  the  fifty.  What  did  ten  shillings 
matter?  Mr.  Leopold  was  a  big  enough  man  to  stand 
the  racket  of  it  even  if  it  didn't  come  back.  William 
felt  very  proud  of  being  consulted,  for  Mr.  Leopold 
had  never  before  been  known  to  let  anyone  know  what 
he  had  on  a  race. 

Next  da}^  they  walked  into  Shoreham  together. 
The  bar  of  the  "Red  Lion"  was  full  of  people.  Above 
the  thronging  crowd  the  voice  of  the  barman  and  the 
customers  were  heard  calling,  "Two  glasses  of  Bur- 
ton, glass  of  bitter,  three  of  whisky  cold."  There 
were  railway  porters,  sailors,  boatmen,  shop-boys,  and 
market  gardeners.  They  had  all  won  something,  and 
had  come  for  their  winnings.] 

Old  Watkins,  an  elderly  man  with  white  whiskers 
and  a  curving  stomach,  had  just  run  in  to  wet  his 
whistle.  He  walked  back  to  his  office  with  Mr.  Leo- 
pold and  William,  a  little  corner  shelved  out  of  some 
out-houses,  into  which  you  could  walk  from  the 
street. 

"Talk  of  favourites!"  he  said;  "I'd  sooner  pay  over 
the  three  first  favourites  than  this  one — thirty,  twenty 
to  one  starting  price,  and  the  whole  town  on  to  him;  it's 
enough  to  break  any  man.  .  .  .  Now,  my 
men,  what  is  it?"  he  said,  turning  to  the  railway 
porters. 


ESTHER    WATERS  S3 

"Just  the  trifle  me  and  my  mates  'av  won  over  that 
'ere  'orse. " 

''What  was  it?" 

"A  shilling  at  five-and-twenty  to  one.'* 

'*Look  it  out,  Joey.     Is  it  all  right?" 

*'Yes,  sir;  yes,  sir,"  said  the  clerk. 

And  old  Watkins  slid  his  hand  into  his  breeches 
pocket,  and  it  came  forth  filled  with  gold  and  silver. 

"Come,  come,  mates,  we  are  bound  to  'ave  a  bet  on 
him  for  the  Chesterfield — we  can  afford  it  now ;  what 
say  yer,  a  shilling  each?" 

"Done  for  a  shilling  each,"  said  the  under-porter; 
"finest  'orse  in  training.  .  .  .  What  price,  Musser 
Watkins?" 

"Ten  to  one." 

"Right,  'ere's  my  bob." 

The  other  porters  gave  their  shillings ;  Watkins  slid 
them  back  into  his  pocket,  and  called  to  Joey  to  book 
the  bet. 

"And,  now,  what  is  yours,  Mr.  Latch?" 

William  stated  the  various  items.  He  had  had  a  bet 
of  ten  shillings  to  one  on  one  race  and  had  lost ;  he  had 
had  half-a-crown  on  another  and  had  lost;  in  a  word, 
three-and- sixpence  had  to  be  subtracted  from  his  win- 
nings on  Silver  Braid.  These  amounted  to  more  than 
five  pounds.  William's  face  flushed  with  pleasure,  and 
the  world  seemed  to  be  his  when  he  slipped  four 
sovereigns  and  a  handful  of  silver  into  his  waistcoat 
pocket.  Should  he  put  a  sovereign  of  his  winnings  on 
Silver  Braid  for  the  Chesterfield?  Half-a-sovereign 
was  enough!  .  .  .  The  danger  of  risking  a  sov- 
ereign— a  whole  sovereign — frightened  him. 

"Now,  Mr.  Latch,"  said  old  Watkins,  "if  you  want 


84  ESTHER     WATERS 

to  back  anything,  make  up  your  mind ;  there  are  a  good 
many  besides  yourself  who  have  business  with  me." 

William  hesitated,  and  then  said  he'd  take  ten  half- 
sovereigns  to  one  against  Silver  Braid, 

"Ten  half-sovereigns  to  one?"  said  old  Watkins. 

William  murmured  "Yes,"  and  Joey  booked  the  bet. 

Mr.  Leopold's  business  demanded  more  considera- 
tion. The  fat  betting  man  and  the  scarecrow  little 
butler  walked  aside  and  talked,  both  apparently 
indifferent  to  the  impatience  of  a  number  of  small  cus- 
tomers; sometimes  Joey  called  in  his  shrill  cracked 
voice  if  he  might  lay  ten  half-crowns  to  one,  or  five 
shillings  to  one,  as  the  case  might  be.  Watkins  would 
then  raise  his  eyes  from  Mr.  Leopold's  face  and  nod  or 
shake  his  head,  or  perhaps  would  sign  with  his  fingers 
what  odds  he  was  prepared  to  lay.  With  no  one  else 
would  Watkins  talk  so  lengthily,  showing  so  much 
deference.  Mr.  Leopold  had  the  knack  of  investing 
all  he  did  with  an  air  of  mystery,  and  the  deepest 
interest  was  evinced  in  this  conversation.  At  last,  as 
if  dismissing  matters  of  first  importance,  the  two  men 
approached  William,  and  he  heard  Watkins  pressing 
Mr.  Leopold  to  lay  off  some  of  that  fifty  pounds. 

"I'll  take  twelve  to  one — twenty-four  pounds  to  two. 
Shall  I  book  it?" 

Mr.  Leopold  shook  his  head,  and,  smiling  enigmatic- 
ally, said  he  must  be  getting  back.  William  was  much 
impressed,  and  congratulated  himself  on  his  courage 
in  taking  the  ten  half-sovereigns  to  one.  Mr.  Leopold 
knew  a  thing  or  two ;  he  had  been  talking  to  the  Gaffer 
that  morning,  and  if  it  hadn't  been  all  right  he  would 
have  laid  off  some  of  the  money. 

Next  day  one  of  the  Gaffer's  two-year-olds  won  a 


ESTHER     WATERS  85 

race,  and  the  day  after  Silver  Braid  won  the  Chester- 
field Cup. 

The  second  victory  of  Silver  Braid  nearly  ruined  old 
Watkins.  He  declared  that  he  had  never  been  so 
hard  hit ;  but  as  he  did  not  ask  for  time  and  continued 
to  draw  notes  and  gold  and  silver  in  handfuls  from  his 
capacious  pockets,  his  lamentations  only  served  to 
stimulate  the  happiness  of  the  fortunate  backers,  and, 
listening  to  the  sweet  note  of  self  ringing  in  their 
hearts,  they  returned  to  the  public-house  to  drink  the 
health  of  the  horse. 

So  the  flood  of  gold  continued  to  roll  into  the  little 
town,  decrepit  and  colourless  by  its  high  shingle  beach 
and  long  reaches  of  muddy  river.  The  dear  gold 
jingled  merrily  in  the  pockets,  quickening  the  steps, 
lightening  the  heart,  curling  lips  with  smiles,  opening 
lips  with  laughter.  The  dear  gold  came  falling  softly, 
sweetly  as  rain,  soothing  the  hard  lives  of  working 
folk.  Lives  pressed  with  toil  lifted  up  and  began  to 
dream  again.  The  dear  gold  was  like  an  opiate;  it 
wiped  away  memories  of  hardship  and  sorrow,  it 
showed  life  in  a  lighter  and  merrier  guise,  and  the  folk 
laughed  at  their  fears  for  the  morrow  and  wondered 
how  they  could  have  thought  life  so  hard  and  relent- 
less. The  dear  gold  was  pleasing  as  a  bird  on  the 
branch,  as  a  flower  on  the  stem;  the  tune  it  sang  was 
sweet,  the  colour  it  flaunted  was  bright. 

The  trade  of  former  days  had  never  brought  the 
excitement  and  the  fortune  that  this  horse's  hoofs  had 
done.  The  dust  they  had  thrown  up  had  fallen  a 
happy,  golden  shower  upon  Shoreham.  In  every 
corner  and  crevice  of  life  the  glitter  appeared.  That 
fine  red  dress  on  the  builder's  wife,  and  the  feathers 


86  ESTHER    WATERS 

that  the  girls  flaunt  at  their  sweethearts,  the  loud 
trousers  on  the  young  man's  legs,  the  cigar  in  his 
mouth — all  is  Goodwood  gold.  It  gHtters  in  that 
girl's  ears  and  on  this  girl's  finger. 

It  was  said  that  the  town  of  Shoreham  had  won  two 
thousand  pounds  on  the  race ;  it  was  said  that  ^Mr. 
Leopold  had  won  two  hundred;  it  was  said  that  Wil- 
liam Latch  had  won  fifty;  it  was  said  that  Wall,  the 
coachman,  had  w^on  five-and-twenty ;  it  was  said  that 
the  Gaffer  had  won  forty  thousand  pounds.  For  ten 
miles  around  nothing  was  talked  of  but  the  wealth  of 
the  Barfields,  and,  drawn  like  moths  to  a  candle,  the 
county  came  to  call;  even  the  most  distant  and 
reserved  left  cards,  others  walked  up  and  down  the 
lawn  with  the  Gaffer,  listening  to  his  slightest  word. 
A  golden  prosperity  shone  upon  the  yellow  Italian 
house.  Carriages  passed  under  its  elm-trees  at  every 
hour  and  swept  round  the  evergreen  oaks.  Rumour 
said  that  large  alterations  were  going  to  be  made,  so 
that  larger  and  grander  entertainments  might  be 
given;  an  Italian  garden  was  spoken  of,  balustrades 
and  terraces,  stables  were  in  course  of  construction, 
many  more  race-horses  were  bought;  they  arrived 
daily,  and  the  slender  creatures,  their  dark  eyes  glanc- 
ing out  of  the  sight  holes  in  their  cloth  hoods,  walked 
up  from  the  station  followed  by  an  admiring  and  com- 
/'  menting  crowd.  Drink  and  expensive  living,  dancing 
and  singing  upstairs  and  downstairs,  and  the  jollifica- 
tions culminated  in  a  servants'  ball  given  at  the 
Shoreham  Gardens.  All  the  Woodview  servants, 
excepting  Mrs.  Latch,  were  there;  likewise  all  the 
servants  from  Mr.  Northcote's,  and  those  from  Sir 
\    George   Preston's — two  leading    county   families.      A 


ESTHER     WATERS  87 

great  number  of  servants  had  come  from  West 
Brighton,  and  Lancing,  and  Worthing — altogether 
between  two  and  three  hundred.  "Evening  dress  is 
indispensable"  was  printed  on  the  cards.  The  but-  ^^ 
lers,  footmen,  cooks,  ladies' -maids,  house-maids,  and 
housekeepers  hoped  by  this  notification  to  keep  the 
ball  select.  But  the  restriction  seemed  to  condemn 
Esther  to  play  again  the  part  of  Cinderella.  -^^'^ 


X. 

A  group  of  men  turned  from  the  circular  buffet 
when  Esther  entered.  Miss  Mary  had  given  her  a 
white  muslin  dress,  a  square-cut  bodice  with  sleeves 
reaching  to  the  elbows,  and  a  blue  sash  tied  round  the 
waist.  The  remarks  as  she  passed  were,  "A  nice, 
pretty  girl."  William  was  waiting,  and  she  went 
away  with  him  on  the  hop  of  a  vigorous  polka. 

Many  of  the  dancers  had  gone  to  get  cool  in  the 
gardens,  but  a  few  couples  had  begun  to  whirl,  the 
women  borne  along  by  force,  the  men  poising  their 
legs  into  curious  geometrical  positions. 

Mr.  Leopold  was  very  busy  dragging  men  away 
from  the  circular  buffet — they  must  dance  whether 
they  knew  how  or  not.  "The  Gaffer  has  told  me 
partic'lar  to  see  that  the  'gals'  all  had  partners,  and 
just  look  down  that  'ere  room;  'alf  of  that  lot  'aven't 
been  on  their  legs  yet.  'Ere's  a  partner  for  you,"  and 
the  butler  pulled  a  young  gamekeeper  towards  a  young 
girl  who  had  just  arrived.  She  entered  slowly,  her 
hands  clasped  across  her  bosom,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground,  and  the  strangeness  of  the  spectacle  caused 
Mr.  Leopold  to  pause.  It  was  whispered  that  she  had 
never  worn  a  low  dress  before,  and  Grover  came  to  the 
rescue  of  her  modesty  with  a  pocket-handkerchief. 

But  it  had  been  found  impossible  to  restrict  the  ball 
to  those  who  possessed  or  could  obtain  an  evening 
suit,   and  plenty  of  check  trousers  and  red  neckties 

88 


ESTHER    WATERS  89 

were  hopping  about.  Among  the  villagers  many  a 
touch  suggested  costume.  A  young  girl  had  borrowed 
her  grandmother' s  wedding  dress,  and  a  young  man 
wore  a  canary-coloured  waistcoat  and  a  blue  coast- 
guardsman's  coat  of  old  time.  These  touches  of 
fancy  and  personal  taste  divided  the  villagers  from  the 
household  servants.  The  butlers  seemed  on  the  watch 
for  side  dishes,  and  the  valets  suggested  hair  brushes 
and  hot  water.  Cooks  trailed  black  silk  dresses 
adorned  with  wide  collars,  and  fastened  with  gold 
brooches  containing  portraits  of  their  late  husbands; 
and  the  fine  shirt  fronts  set  off  with  rich  pearls,  the 
lavender-gloved  hands,  the  delicate  faces,  expressive 
of  ease  and  leisure,  made  Ginger's  two  friends — young 
Mr.  Preston  and  young  Mr.  Northcote — noticeable 
among  this  menial,  work-a-day  crowd.  Ginger  loved 
the  upper  circles,  and  now  he  romped  the  polka 
in  the  most  approved  London  fashion,  his  elbows 
advanced  like  a  yacht's  bowsprit,  and,  his  coat-tails 
flying,  he  dashed  through  a  group  of  tradespeople 
who  were  bobbing  up  and  down,  hardly  advancing 
at  all. 

Esther  was  now  being  spoken  of  as  the  belle  of  the 
ball,  she  had  danced  with  young  Mr.  Preston,  and 
seeing  her  sitting  alone  Grover  called  her  and  asked 
her  why  she  was  not  dancing.  Esther  answered  sul- 
lenly that  she  was  tired. 

"Come,  the  next  polka,  just  to  show  there  is  no  ill- 
feeling.*'  Half  a  dozen  times  William  repeated  his 
demand.     At  last  she  said — 

"You've  spoilt  all  my  pleasure  in  the  dancing." 

"I'm  sorry  if  I've  done  that,  Esther.  I  was  jealous, 
that's  all." 


ESTHER     WATERS 

"Jealous!  What  was  you  jealous  for?  What  do  it 
matter  what  people  think,  so  long  as  I  know  I  haven't 
\  done  no  wrong?" 

And  in  silence  they  walked  into  the  garden.  The 
night  was  warm,  even  oppressive,  and  the  moon  hung 
like  a  balloon  above  the  trees,  and  often  the  straying 
revellers  stopped  to  consider  the  markings  now  so 
plain  upon  its  disc.  There  were  arbours,  artificial 
ruins,  darkling  pathways,  and  the  breathless  garden 
was  noisy  in  the  illusive  light.  William  showed 
Esther  the  theatre  and  explained  its  purpose.  She 
listened,  though  she  did  not  understand,  nor  could  she 
believe  that  she  was  not  dreaming  when  they  suddenly 
stood  on  the  borders  of  a  beautiful  lake  full  of  the 
shadows  of  tall  trees,  and  crossed  by  a  wooden  bridge 
at  the  narrowest  end. 

"How  still  the  water  is;  and  the  stars,  they  are 
lovely!" 

"You  should  see  the  gardens  about  three  o'clock  on 
Saturday  afternoons,  when  the  excursion  comes  in 
from  Brighton." 

They  walked  on  a  little  further,  and  Esther  said, 
"What's  these  places?     Ain't  they  dark?" 

"These  are  arbours,  where  we  *as  shrimps  and  tea. 
I'll  take  you  next  Saturday,  if  you'll  come." 

A  noisy  band  of  young  men,  followed  by  three  or 
four  girls,  ran  across  the  bridge.  Suddenly  they 
stopped  to  argue  on  which  side  the  boat  was  to  be 
found.  Some  chose  the  left,  some  the  right ;  those 
who  went  to  the  right  sent  up  a  yell  of  triumph,  and 
paddled  into  the  middle  of  the  water.  They  first 
addressed  remarks  to  their  companions,  and  then  they 
admired  the  moon  and  stars.     A  song  was  demanded, 


ESTHER     WATERS  9^ 

and  at  the  end  of  the  second  verse  William  threw  his 
arm  round  Esther. 

*'Oh,  Esther,  I  do  love  you." 

She  looked  at  him,  her  grey  eyes  fixed  in  a  long  in- 
terrogation. 

"I  wonder  if  that  is  true.  What  is  there  to  love  in 
me?" 

He  squeezed  her  tightly,  and  continued  his  protesta- 
tions.    '*I  do,  I  do,  I  do  love  you,  Esther." 

She  did  not  answer,  and  they  walked  slowly  on.  A 
holly  bush  threw  a  black  shadow  on  the  gravel  path, 
and  a  moment  after  the  ornamental  tin  roof  of  the 
dancing  room  appeared  between  the  trees. 

Even  in  their  short  absence  a  change  had  come  upon 
the  ball.  About  the  circular  buffet  numbers  of  men 
called  for  drink,  and  talked  loudly  of  horse-racing. 
Many  \vere  away  at  supper,  and  those  that  remained 
were  amusing  themselves  in  a  desultory  fashion.  A 
tall,  lean  woman,  dressed  like  Sarah  in  white  muslin, 
wearing  amber  beads  round  her  neck,  was  dancing  the 
lancers  with  the  Demon,  and  ever>'one  shook  with 
laughter  when  she  whirled  the  little  fellow  round  or 
took  him  in  her  arms  and  carried  him  across.  Wil- 
liam wanted  to  dance,  but  Esther  was  hungry,  and  led 
him  away  to  an  adjoining  building  where  cold  beef, 
chicken,  and  beer  might  be  had  by  the  strong  and 
adventurous.  As  they  struggled  through  the  crowd 
Esther  spied  three  young  gentlemen  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room. 

"Now  tell  me,  if  they  ask  me,  the  young  gents  yon- 
der, to  dance,  am  I  to  look  them  straight  in  the  face 
and  say  no?" 

William  considered  a  moment,  and  then  he  said,  * '  I 


/ 


92  ESTHER    WATERS 

think  you  had  better  dance  with  them  if  they  asks 
you ;  if  you  refuse,  Sarah  will  say  it  was  I  who  put  you 
up  to  it." 

"Let's  have  another  bottle,"  cried  Ginger.  '*Come, 
what  do  you  say,  Mr.  Thomas?" 

Mr.  Thomas  coughed,  smiled,  and  said  that  Mr. 
Arthur  wished  to  see  him  in  the  hands  of  the  police. 
However,  he  promised  to  drink  his  share.  Two  more 
bottles  were  sent  for,  and,  stimulated  by  the  wine,  the 
weights  that  would  probably  be  assigned  to  certain 
horses  in  the  autumn  handicap  were  discussed.  Wil- 
liam was  very  proud  of  being  admitted  into  such  com- 
pany, and  he  listened,  a  cigar  which  he  did  not  like 
between  his  teeth,  and  a  glass  of  champagne  in  his 
hand.  .  .  .  Suddenly  the  conversation  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  cornet  sounding  the  first  phrase  of  a 
favourite  waltz,  and  the  tipsy  and  the  sober  hastened 
away. 

Neither  Esther  nor  William  knew  how  to  waltz,  but 
they  tumbled  round  the  room,  enjoying  themselves 
immensely.  In  the  polka  and  mazurka  they  got  on 
better ;  and  there  were  quadrilles  and  lancers  in  which 
the  gentlemen  joined,  and  all  were  gay  and  pleasant; 
even  Sarah's  usually  sour  face  glowed  with  cordiality 
when  they  joined  hands  and  raced  round  the  men 
standing  in  the  middle.  In  the  chain  they  lost  them- 
selves as  in  a  labyrinth  and  found  their  partners  unex- 
pectedly. But  the  dance  of  the  evening  was  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley,  and  Esther's  usually  sober  little  brain 
evaporated  in  the  folly  of  running  up  the  room,  then 
turning  and  running  backwards,  getting  into  her  place 
as  best  she  could,  and  then  starting  again.  It  always 
appeared  to  be  her  turn,  and  it  was  so  sweet  to  see  her 


ESTHER     WATERS  93 

dear  William,  and  such  a  strange  excitement  to  run 
forward  to  meet  young  Mr.  Preston,  to  curtsey  to  him, 
and  then  run  away ;  and  this  over  and  over  again. 
"There's  the  dawn. "  X 

Esther  looked,  and  in  the  whitening  doorways  she 
saw  the  little  jockey  staggering  about  helplessly 
drunk.  The  smile  died  out  of  her  eyes ;  she  returned 
to  her  true  self,  to  Mrs.  Bar  field  and  the  Brethren. 
She  felt  that  all  this  dancing,  drinking,  and  kissing  in 
the  arbours  was  wicked.  But  Miss  Mary  had  sent  for 
her,  and  had  told  her  that  she  would  give  her  one  of 
her  dresses,  and  she  had  not  known  how  to  refuse  Miss 

Mar>^       Then,    if    she    had    not    gone,    William 

Sounds  of  loud  voices  were  heard  in  the  garden,  and 
the  lean  woman  in  the  white  muslin  repeated  some 
charge.  Esther  ran  out  to  see  what  was  happening, 
and  there  she  witnessed  a  disgraceful  scene.  The  lean 
woman  in  the  muslin  dress  and  the  amber  beads 
accused  young  Mr.  Preston  of  something  which  he 
denied,  and  she  heard  William  tell  someone  that  he 
was  mistaken,  that  he  and  his  pals  didn't  want  no 
rowing  at  this  'ere  ball,  and  what  was  more  they 
didn't  mean  to  have  none. 

And  her  heart  filled  with  love  for  her  big  William. 
What  a  fine  fellow  he  was!  how  handsome  were  his 
shoulders  beside  that  round-shouldered  little  man 
whom  he  so  easily  pulled  aside !  and  having  crushed 
out  the  quarrel,  he  helped  her  on  with  her  jacket, 
and,  hanging  on  his  arm,  they  returned  home  through 
the  little  town.  Margaret  followed  with  the  railway 
porter ;  Sarah  was  with  her  faithful  admirer,  a  man 
with  a  red  beard,  whom  she  had  picked  up  at  the 
ball ;  Grover  waddled  in  the  rear,  embarrassed  with  the 


X 


i 

) 


94  ESTHER    WATERS 

green  silk,  which  she  held  high  out  of  the  dust  of  the 
road. 

When  they  reached  the  station  the  sky  was  stained 
with  rose,  and  the  barren  downs — more  tin-like  than 
ever  in  the  shadowless  light  of  dawn — stretched  across 
the  sunrise  from  Lancing  to  Brighton.  The  little 
birds  sat  ruffling  their  feathers,  and,  awaking  to  the 
responsibilities  of  the  day,  flew  away  into  the  com. 
The  night  had  been  close  and  sultry,  and  even  at  this 
hour  there  was  hardly  any  freshness  in  the  air.  Esther 
looked  at  the  hills,  examining  the  landscape  intently. 
She  was  thinking  of  the  first  time  she  saw  it.  Some 
vague  association  of  ideas — the  likeness  that  the  morn- 
ing landscape  bore  to  the  evening  landscape,  or  the 
wish  to  prolong  the  sweetness  of  these,  the  last 
moments  of  her  happiness,  impelled  her  to  linger  and 
to  ask  William  if  the  woods  and  fields  were  not  beau- 
tiful. The  too  familiar  landscape  awoke  in  William 
neither  idea  nor  sensation;  Esther  interested  him 
more,  and  while  she  gazed  dreamily  on  the  hills  he 
admired  the  white  curve  of  her  neck  which  showed 
beneath  the  unbuttoned  jacket.  She  never  looked 
prettier  than  she  did  that  morning,  standing  on  the 
dusty  road,  her  white  dress  crumpled,  the  ends  of  the 
blue  sash  hanging  beneath  the  black  cloth  jacket. 


XI. 

For  days  nothing  was  talked  of  but  the  ball — how 
this  man  had  danced,  the  bad  taste  of  this  woman's 
dress,  and  the  possibility  of  a  marriage.  The  ball  had 
brought  amusement  to  all,  to  Esther  it  had  brought 
happiness.  Her  happiness  was  now  visible  in  her 
face  and  audible  in  her  voice,  and  Sarah's  ironical 
allusions  to  her  inability  to  learn  to  read  no  longer 
annoyed  her,  no  longer  stirred  her  temper — her  love 
seemed  to  induce  forgiveness  for  all  and  love  for  every- 
thing. 

In  the  evenings  when  their  work  was  done  Esther 
and  her  lover  lingered  about  the  farm  buildings, 
listening  to  the  rooks,  seeing  the  lights  die  in  the 
west;  and  ill  the  summer  darkness  about  nine  she 
tripped  by  his  side  when  he  took  the  letters  to  post. 
The  wheat  stacks  were  thatching,  and  in  the  rick- 
yard,  in  the  carpenter's  shop,  and  in  the  whist  of  the 
woods  they  talked  of  love  and  marriage.  They  lay 
together  in  the  warm  valleys,  listening  to  the  tinkling 
of  the  sheep-bell,  and  one  evening,  putting  his  pipe 
aside,  William  threw  his  arm  round  her,  whispering 
that  she  was  his  wife.  The  words  were  delicious  in 
her  fainting  ears,  and  her  will  died  in  what  seemed 
like  irresistible  destiny.  She  could  not  struggle  with 
him,  though  she  knew  that  her  fate  depended  upon 
her  resistance,  and  swooning  away  she  awakened  in 
pain,  powerless    to  free  herself.     .     .     .     Soon  after 

5  95 


96  ESTHER     WATERS 

thoughts  betook  themselves  on  their  painful  way,  and 
the  stars  were  shining  when  he  followed  her  across  the 
down,  beseeching  her  to  listen.  But  she  fled  along  the 
grey  road  and  up  the  stairs  to  her  room.  Margaret 
was  in  bed,  and  awakening  a  little  asked  her  what  had 
kept  her  out  so  late.  She  did  not  answer  .  .  . 
and  hearing  Margaret  fall  asleep  she  remembered  the 
supper-table.  Sarah,  who  had  come  in  late,  had  sat 
down  by  her ;  William  sat  on  the  opposite  side ;  Mrs. 
Latch  was  in  her  place,  the  jockeys  were  all  together; 
Mr.  Swindles,  his  snuff-box  on  the  table;  Margaret 
and  Grover.  Ever}'one  had  drunk  a  great  deal ;  and 
Mr.  Leopold  had  gone  to  the  beer  cellar  many  times. 
She  thought  that  she  remembered  feeling  a  little  dizzy 
when  William  asked  her  to  come  for  a  stroll  up  the 
hill.  They  had  passed  through  the  hunting  gate; 
they  had  wandered  into  the  loneliness  of  the  hills. 
Over  the  folded  sheep  the  rooks  came  home  noisily 
through  a  deepening  sky.  So  far  she  remembered, 
and  she  could  not  remember  further ;  and  all  night  lay 
staring  into  the  darkness,  and  when  ^largaret  called 
her  in  the  morning  she  was  pale  and  deathlike. 

"Whatever  is  the  matter?     You  do  look  ill." 

*'I  did  not  sleep  all  last  night.  My  head  aches  as  if 
it  would  drop  off.  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  go  to  work 
to-day. ' ' 

"That's  the  worst  of  being  a  servant.  Well  or  ill,  it 
makes  no  matter."  She  turned  from  the  glass,  and 
holding  her  hair  in  her  left  hand,  leaned  her  head  so 
that  she  might  pin  it.  "You  do  look  bad,"  she 
remarked  dryly. 

Never  had  they  been  so  late!  Half-past  seven,  and 
the  shutters  still  up !     So  said  Margaret  as  they  hurried 


ESTHER     WATERS  97 

downstairs.  But  Esther  thought  only  of  the  meeting 
with  William.  She  had  seen  him  cleaning  boots  in 
the  pantry  as  they  passed.  He  waited  till  Margaret 
left  her,  till  he  heard  the  baize  door  which  separated 
the  back  premises  from  the  front  of  the  house  close, 
then  he  ran  to  the  kitchen,  where  he  expected  to  find 
Esther  alone.  But  meeting  his  mother  he  mumbled 
some  excuse,  and  retreated.  There  were  visitors  in 
the  house,  he  had  a  good  deal  to  do  that  morning,  and 
Esther  kept  close  to  Mrs.  Latch;  but  at  breakfast  it 
suddenly  became  necessary  that  she  should  answer 
him,  and  Sarah  saw  that  Esther  and  William  were  no 
longer  friends. 

*'Well  I  never!  Look  at  her!  She  sits  there  over 
her  tea-cup  as  melancholy  as  a  prayer-meeting. " 

"What  is  it  to  you?"  said  William. 

*' What's  it  to  me?  I  don't  like  an  ugly  face  at  the 
breakfast-table,  that's  all." 

"I  wouldn't  be  your  looking-glass,  then.  Luckily 
there  isn't  one  here.  " 

In  the  midst  of  an  angry  altercation,  Esther  walked 
out  of  the  room.  During  dinner  she  hardly  spoke  at 
all.  After  dinner  she  went  to  her  room,  and  did  not 
come  down  until  she  thought  he  had  gone  out  with  the 
carriage.  But  she  was  too  soon,  William  came  run- 
ning down  the  passage  to  meet  her.  He  laid  his  hand 
supplicatingly  on  her  arm. 

*' Don't  touch  me!"  she  said,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  dangerous  light. 

"Now,  Esther!  .  .  .  Come,  don't  [lay  it  on  too 
thick : ' ' 

"Go  away.     Don't  speak  to  me!" 

"Just  listen  one  moment,  that's  ad." 


98  ESTHER    WATERS 

**Go  away.  If  you  don't,  I'll  go  straight  to  Mrs. 
Barfield." 

She  passed  into  the  kitchen  and  shut  the  door  in  his 
face.  He  had  gone  a  trifle  pale,  and  after  lingering  a 
few  moments  he  hurried  away  to  the  stables,  and 
Esther  saw  him  spring  on  the  box. 

As  it  was  frequent  with  Esther  not  to  speak  to  any- 
one with  whom  she  had  had  a  dispute  for  a  week  or 
fifteen  days,  her  continued  sulk  excited  little  suspicion, 
and  the  cause  of  the  quarrel  was  attributed  to  some 
trifle.     Sarah  said — 

"Men  are  such  fools.  He  is  always  begging  of  her 
to  forgive  him.  Just  look  at  him — he  is  still  after  her, 
following  her  into  the  wood-shed." 

She  rarely  answered  him  a  yes  or  no,  but  would 
push  past  him,  and  if  he  forcibly  barred  the  way  she 
would  say,  "Let  me  go  by,  will  you?  You  are  inter- 
fering with  my  work."  And  if  he  still  insisted,  she 
spoke  of  appealing  to  Mrs.  Barfield.  And  if  her 
heart  sometimes  softened,  and  an  insidious  thought 
whispered  that  it  did  not  matter  since  they  were  going 
to  be  married,  instinct  forced  her  to  repel  him;  her 
instinct  was  that  she  could  only  win  his  respect  by 
refusing  forgiveness  for  a  long  while.  The  religion  in 
which  her  soul  moved  and  lived— the  sternest  Protes- 
tantism—strengthened and  enforced  the  original  con- 
victions and  the  prejudices  of  her  race;  and  the 
natural  shame  which  she  had  first  felt  almost  disap- 
peared in  the  violence  of  her  virtue.  She  even  ceased 
to  fear  discovery.  What  did  it  matter  who  knew, 
since  she  knew?  She  opened  her  heart  to  God. 
Christ  looked  down,  but  he  seemed  stern  and  unfor- 
giving.    Her  Christ  was  the  Christ  of  her  forefathers; 


ESTHER     WATERS  99 

and  He  had  not  forgiven,  because  she  could  not  for- 
give herself.  Hers  was  the  unpardonable  sin,  the  sin 
which  her  race  had  elected  to  fight  against,  and  she 
lay  down  weary  and  sullen  at  heart. 

The  days  seemed  to  bring  no  change,  and,  wearied 
by  her  stubbornness,  William  said,  "Let  her  sulk," 
and  he  went  out  with  Sarah;  and  when  Esther  saw 
them  go  down  the  yard  her  heart  said,  "Let  him  take 
her  out,  I  don't  want  him."  For  she  knew  it  to  be  a 
trick  to  make  her  jealous,  and  that  he  should  dare  such 
a  trick  angered  her  still  further  against  him,  and  when 
they  met  in  the  garden,  where  she  had  gone  with 
some  food  for  the  cats,  and  he  said,  "Forgive  me, 
Esther,  I  only  went  out  with  Sarah  because  you  drove 
me  wild, ' '  she  closed  her  teeth  and  refused  to  answer. 
But  he  stood  in  her  path,  determined  not  to  leave  her. 
"I  am  very  fond  of  you,  Esther,  and  I  will  marry  you 
as  soon  as  I  have  earned  enough  or  won  enough 
money  to  give  you  a  comfortable  'ome. " 

"You  are  a  wicked  man;  I  will  never  marry  you." 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Esther.  But  I  am  not  as  bad  as 
you  think  for.  You  let  your  temper  get  the  better  of 
you.     So  soon  as  I  have  got  a  bit  of  money  together — ' ' 

"If  you  were  a  good  man  you  would  ask  me  to  marry 
you  now. ' ' 

"I  will  if  you  like,  but  the  truth  is  that  I  have  only 
three  pounds  in  the  world.  I  have  been  unlucky 
lately " 

"You  think  of  nothing  but  that  wicked  betting. 
Come,  let  me  pass;  I'm  not  going  to  listen  to  a  lot  of 
lies." 

"After  the  Leger " 

"Let  me  pass.     I  will  not  speak  to  you." 


Joo  ESTHER    WATERS 

*'But  look  here,  Esther:  marriage  or  no  marriage, 
we  can't  go  on  in  this  way:  they'll  be  suspecting 
something  shortly." 

"I  shall  leave  Wood  view."  She  had  hardly  spoken 
the  words  when  it  seemed  clear  to  her  that  she  must 
leave,  and  the  sooner  the  better.     "Come,  let  me  pass. 

...     If  Mrs.  Barfield " 

'An  angry  look  passed  over  William's  face,  and  he 
said — 

"I  want  to  act  honest  with  you,  and  you  won't  let 
me.  If  ever  there  was  a  sulky  pig!  .  .  .  Sarah's 
quite  right ;  you  are  just  the  sort  that  would  make  hell 
of  a  man's  life." 

She  was  bound  to  make  him  respect  her.  She  had 
vaguely  felt  from  the  beginning  that  this  was  her  only 
hope,  and  now  the  sensation  developed  and  defined 
itself  into  a  thought,  and  she  decided  that  she  would 
not  yield,  but  would  continue  to  affirm  her  belief  that 
he  must  acknowledge  his  sin,  and  then  come  and  ask 
her  to  marry  him.  Above  all  things,  Esther  desired 
to  see  William  repentant.  Her  natural  piety,  filling 
as  it  did  her  entire  life,  unconsciously  made  her  deem 
repentance  an  essential  condition  of  their  happiness. 
How  could  they  be  happy  if  he  were  not  a  God-fe-aring 
man?  This  question  presented  itself  constantly,  and 
she  was  suddenly  convinced  that  she  could  not  marry 
him  until  he  had  asked  forgiveness  of  the  Lord.  Then 
they  would  be  joined  together,  and  would  love  each 
other  faithfully  unto  death. 

But  in  conflict  with  her  prejudices,  her  natural  love 
of  the  man  was  as  the  sun  shining  above  a  fog-laden 
valley;  rays  of  passion  pierced  her  stubborn  nature, 
dissolving  it,  and  unconsciously  her  eyes  sought  Wil- 


ESTHER    WATERS  ^^^'i 

Ham's,  and  unconsciously  her  steps  strayed  from  the 
kitchen  when  her  ears  told  her  he  was  in  the  passage. 
But  when  her  love  went  out  freely  to  William,  when 
she  longed  to  throw  herself  in  his  arms,  saying,  "Yes, 
I  love  you;  make  me  your  wife,"  she  noticed,  or 
thought  she  noticed,  that  he  avoided  her  eyes,  and  she 
felt  that  thoughts  of  which  she  knew  nothing  had 
obtained  a  footing  in  his  mind,  and  she  was  full  of 
foreboding. 

Her  heart  being  intent  on  him,  she  was  aware  of 
much  that  escaped  the  ordinary  eye,  and  she  was  the 
first  to  notice  when  the  drawing-room  bell  rang,  and 
Mr.  Leopold  rose,  that  William  would  say,  "My  legs 
are  the  youngest,  don't  you  stir." 

No  one  else,  not  even  Sarah,  thought  William 
intended  more  than  to  keep  in  Mr.  Leopold's  good 
graces,  but  Esther,  although  unable  to  guess  the  truth, 
heard  the  still  tinkling  bell  ringing  the  knell  of  her 
hopes.  She  noted,  too,  the  time  he  remained  upstairs, 
and  asked  herself  anxiously  what  it  was  that  detained 
him  so  long.  The  weather  had  turned  colder  lately. 
.  .  .  Was  it  a  fire  that  was  wanted?  In  the  course 
of  the  afternoon,  she  heard  from  Margaret  that  Miss 
Mary  and  Mrs.  Barfield  had  gone  to  Southwick  to  make 
a  call,  and  she  heard  from  one  of  the  boys  that  the 
Gaffer  and  Ginger  had  ridden  over  in  the  morning  to 
Fendon  Fair,  and  had  not  yet  returned.  It  must  have 
been  Peggy  who  had  rung  the  bell.  Peggy?  Sud- 
denly she  remembered  something — something  that  had 
been  forgotten.  The  first  Sunday,  the  first  time  she 
went  to  the  library  for  family  prayers,  Peggy  was  sit- 
ting on  the  little  green  sofa,  and  as  Esther  passed 
across  the  room  to  her  place  she  saw  her  cast  a  glance 


ro2  ESTHER    WATERS 

of  admiration  on  William's  tall  figure,  and  the  memory 
of  that  glance  had  flamed  up  in  her  brain,  and  all  that 
night  Esther  saw  the  girl  with  the  pale  face  and  the 
coal-black  hair  looking  at  her  William. 

Next  day  Esther  waited  for  the  bell  that  was  to  call 
her  lover  from  her.  The  afternoon  wore  slowly  away, 
and  she  had  begun  to  hope  she  was  mistaken  when  the 
metal  tongue  commenced  calling.  She  heard  the 
baize  door  close  behind  him;  but  the  bell  still  con- 
tinued to  utter  little  pathetic  notes.  A  moment  after 
all  was  still  in  the  corridor,  and  like  one  sunk  to  the 
knees  in  quicksands  she  felt  that  the  time  had  come 
for  a  decided  effort.  But  what  could  she  do?  She 
could  not  follow  him  to  the  drawing-room.  She  had 
begun  to  notice  that  he  seemed  to  avoid  her,  and  by 
his  conduct  seemed  to  wish  that  their  quarrel  riiight 
endure.  But  pride  and  temper  had  fallen  from  her, 
and  she  lived  conscious  of  him,  noting  every  sign,  and 
intensely,  all  that  related  to  him,  divining  all  his  inten- 
tions, and  meeting  him  in  the  passage  when  he  least 
expected  her. 

'*I'm  always  getting  in  your  way,"  she  said,  with  a 
low,  nervous  laugh. 

*'No  harm  in  that;  .  .  .  fellow  servants;  there 
must  be  give  and  take." 

Tremblingly  they  looked  at  each  other,  feeling  that 
the  time  had  come,  that  an  explanation  was  inevitable, 
but  at  that  moment  the  drawing-room  bell  rang  above 
their  heads,  and  William  said,  "I  must  answer  that 
bell."  He  turned  from  her,  and  passed  through  the 
baize  door  before  she  had  said  another  word. 

Sarah  remarked  that  William  seemed  to  spend  a 
great  deal  of  his  time  in  the  drawing-room,  and  Esther 


ESTHER     WATERS  103 

started  out  of  her  moody  contemplation,  and,  speaking 
instinctively,  she  said,  "I  don't  think  much  of  ladies 
who  go  after  their  servants." 

Everyone  looked  up.  Mrs.  Latch  laid  her  carving- 
knife  on  the  meat  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  her  son. 

"Lady?"  said  Sarah;  "she's  no  lady!  Her  mother 
used  to  mop  out  the  yard  before  she  was  'churched.'  " 

"I  can  tell  you  what,"  said  William,  "you  had  better 
mind  what  you  are  a-saying  of,  for  if  any  of  your  talk 
got  wind  upstairs  you'd  lose  yer  situation,  and  it  might 
be  some  time  before  yer  got  another!" 

"Lose  my  situation!  and  a  good  job,  too.  I  shall 
always  be  able  to  suit  mesel' ;  don't  you  fear  about 
me.  But  if  it  comes  to  talking  about  situations,  I  can 
tell  you  that  you  are  more  likely  to  lose  yours  than  I 
am  to  lose  mine." 

William  hesitated,  and  while  he  sought  a  judicious 
reply  Mrs.  Latch  and  Mr.  Leopold,  putting  forth  their 
joint  authority,  brought  the  discussion  to  a  close.  The 
jockey-boys  exchanged  grins,  Sarah  sulked,  Mr.  Swin- 
dles pursed  up  his  mouth  in  consideration,  and  the 
elder  servants  felt  that  the  matter  would  not  rest  in 
the  servants'  hall;  that  evening  it  would  be  the  theme 
of  conversation  in  the  "Red  Lion,"  and  the  next  day 
it  would  be  the  talk  of  the  town. 

About  four  o'clock  Esther  saw  Mrs.  Barfield,  Miss 
Mary,  and  Peggy  walk  across  the  yard  towards  the  gar- 
den, and  as  Esther  had  to  go  soon  after  to  the  wood- 
shed she  saw  Peggy  slip  out  of  the  garden  by  a  bottom 
gate  and  make  her  way  through  the  evergreens. 
Esther  hastened  back  to  the  kitchen  and  stood  waiting 
for  the  bell  to  ring.  She  had  not  to  w^ait  long;  the 
bell  tinkled,  but  so  faintly  that  Esther  said,  "She  only 


I04  ESTHER    WATERS 

just  touched  it ;  it  is  a  signal ;  he  was  on  the  look-out 
for  it;  she  did  not  want  anyone  else  to  hear." 

Esther  remembered  the  thousands  of  pounds  she 
had  heard  that  the  young  lady  possessed,  and  the 
beautiful  dresses  she  wore.  There  was  no  hope  for 
her.  How  could  there  be?  Her  poor  little  wages  and 
her  print  dress!  He  would  never  look  at  her  again! 
But  oh!  how  cruel  and  wicked  it  was!  How  could  one 
who  had  so  much  come  to  steal  from  one  who  had  so 
little?  Oh,  it  was  very  cruel  and  very  wicked,  and  no 
good  would  come  of  it  either  to  her  or  to  him ;  of  that 
she  felt  quite  sure.  God  always  punished  the  wicked. 
She  knew  he  did  not  love  Peggy.  It  was  sin  and 
shame;  and  after  his  promises — after  what  had  hap- 
pened. Never  would  she  have  believed  him  to  be  so 
false.  Then  her  thought  turned  to  passionate  hatred 
of  the  girl  who  had  so  cruelly  robbed  her.  He  had 
gone  through  that  baize  door,  and  no  doubt  he  was  sit- 
ting by  Peggy  in  the  new  drawing-room.  He  had  gone 
where  she  could  not  follow.  He  had  gone  where  the 
grand  folk  lived  in  idleness,  in  the  sinfulness  of  the 
world  and  the  flesh,  eating  and  gambling,  thinking  of 
nothing  else,  and  with  servants  to  wait  on  them,  obey- 
ing their  orders  and  saving  them  from  every  trouble. 
She  knew  that  these  fine  folk  thought  servants  inferior 
beings.  But  was  she  not  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood 
as  they?  Peggy  wore  a  fine  dress,  but  she  was  no 
better;  take  off  her  dress  and  they  were  the  same, 
woman  to  woman. 

She  pushed  through  the  door  and  walked  down  the 
passage.  A  few  steps  brought  her  to  the  foot  of  a 
polished  oak  staircase,  lit  by  a  large  window  in  col- 
oured glass,  on  either  side  of  which  there  were  statues. 


ESTHER     WATERS  105 

The  staircase  sloped  slowly  to  an  imposing  landing  set 
out  with  columns  and  blue  vases  and  embroidered  cur- 
tains. The  girl  saw  these  things  vaguely,  and  she  was 
conscious  of  a  profusion  of  rugs,  matting,  and  bright 
doors,  and  of  her  inability  to  decide  which  door  was 
the  drawing-room  door — the  drawing-room  of  which 
she  had  heard  so  much,  and  where  even  now,  amid 
gold  furniture  and  sweet-scented  air,  William  listened 
to  the  wicked  woman  w^ho  had  tempted  him  away  from 
her.  Suddenly  William  appeared,  and  seeing  Esther 
he  seemed  uncertain  whether  to  draw  back  or  come 
forward.  Then  his  face  took  an  expression  of  mixed  fear 
and  anger ;  and  coming  rapidly  towards  her,  he  said — 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  .  .  .  then  changing 
his  voice,  "This  is  against  the  rules  of  the  'ouse. " 

' '  I  want  to  see  her. ' ' 

"Anything  else?  What  do  you  want  to  say  to  her? 
I  won't  have  it,  I  tell  you.  .  .  .  What  do  you 
mean  by  spying  after  me?     That's  your  game,  is  it?" 

"I  want  to  speak  to  her." 

With  averted  face  the  young  lady  fled  up  the  oak 
staircase,  her  handkerchief  to  her  lips.  Esther  made  a 
movement  as  if  to  follow,  but  William  prevented  her. 
She  turned  and  walked  down  the  passage  and  entered 
the  kitchen.  Her  face  was  one  white  tint,  her  short, 
strong  arms  hung  tremblingly,  and  William  saw  that  it 
would  be  better  to  temporise. 

"Now  look  here,  Esther,"  he  said,  "you  ought  to  be 
damned  thankful  to  me  for  having  prevented  you  from 
making  a  fool  of  yourself." 

Esther's  eyelids  quivered,  and  then  her  eyes  dilated. 

"Now,  if  Miss  Margaret,"  continued  William, 
"had " 


io6  ESTHER     WATERS 

*'Go  away!  go  away!     I  am "     At  that  moment 

the  steel  of  a  large,  sharp-pointed  knife  lying  on  the 
table  caught  her  eye.  She  snatched  it  up,  and  seeing 
blood  she  rushed  at  him. 

William  retreated  from  her,  and  Mrs.  Latch,  coming 
suddenly  in,  caught  her  arm.  Esther  threw  the  knife; 
it  struck  the  wall,  falling  with  a  rattle  on  the  meat 
screen.  Escaping  from  Mrs,  Latch,  she  rushed  to 
secure  it,  but  her  strength  gave  way,  and  she  fell  back 
in  a  dead  faint. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  to  the  girl?"  said  Mrs. 
Latch. 

"Nothing,  mother.  .  .  .  We  had  a  few  words, 
that  was  all.     She  said  I  should  not  go  out  with  Sarah. ' ' 

"That  is  not  true.  ...  I  can  read  the  lie  in 
your  face;  a  girl  doesn't  take  up  a  knife  unless  a  man 
well-nigh  drives  her  mad." 

"That's  right;  always  side  against  your  son!  .  . 
If  you  don't  believe  me,  get  what  you  can  out  of  her 
yourself."  And,  turning  on  his  heel,  he  walked  out 
of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Latch  saw  him  pass  down  the  yard  towards  the 
stables,  and  when  Esther  opened  her  eyes  she  looked 
at  Mrs.  Latch  questioningly,  unable  to  understand  why 
the  old  woman  was  standing  by  her. 

"Are  you  better  now,  dear?" 

"Yes,    but — but    what "       Then    remembrance 

struggled  back.  "Is  he  gone?  Did  I  strike  him?  I 
remember  that  I ' ' 

"You  did  not  hurt  him." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  him  again.  Far  better  not.  I 
was  mad.     I  did  not  know  what  I  was  doing. '  * 

"You  will  tell  me  about  it  another  time,  dear." 


ESTHER    WATERS  107 

**Where  is  he?  tell  me  that;  I  must  know.'* 

"Gone  to  the  stables,  I  think;  but  you  must  not  go 
after  him — you'll  see  him  to-morrow. ' ' 

"I  do  not  want  to  go  after  him:  but  he  isn't  hurt? 
That's  what  I  want  to  know." 

*'No,  he  isn't  hurt.  .  .  .  You're  getting 
stronger.  .  .  .  Lean  on  me.  You'll  begin  to  feel 
better  when  you  are  in  bed.  I'll  bring  you  up  j^our 
tea." 

"Yes,  I  shall  be  all  right  presently.  But  how'll  you 
manage  to  get  the  dinner?" 

"Don't  you  worry  about  that;  you  go  upstairs  and 
lie  down." 

A  desolate  hope  floated  over  the  surface  of  her  brain 
that  William  might  be  brought  back  to  her. 

In  the  evening  the  kitchen  was  full  of  people :  Mar- 
garet, Sarah,  and  Grover  were  there,  and  she  heard 
that  immediately  after  lunch  Mr.  Leopold  had  been 
sent  for,  and  the  Gaffer  had  instructed  him  to  pay 
William  a  month's  wages,  and  see  that  he  left  the 
house  that  very  instant.  Sarah,  Margaret,  and  Grover 
watched  Esther's  face  and  were  surprised  at  her 
indifference.  She  even  seemed  pleased.  She  was 
pleased:  nothing  better  could  have  happened.  Wil- 
liam was  now  separated  from  her  rival,  and  released 
from  her  bad  influence  he  would  return  to  his  real 
love.  At  the  first  sign  she  would  go  to  him,  she  would 
forgive  him.  But  a  little  later,  when  the  dishes  came 
down  from  the  dining-room,  it  was  whispered  that 
Peggy  was  not  there. 

Later  in  the  evening,  when  the  servants  were  going 
to  bed,  it  became  known  that  she  had  left  the  house, 
that  she  had  taken  the  six  o'clock  to  Brighton.     Esther 


io8  ESTHER    WATERS 

turned  from  the  foot  of  the  stair  with  a  wild  look. 
Margaret  caught  her. 

"It's  no  use,  dear;  you  can  do-nothing  to-night." 

"I  can  walk  to  Brighton." 

*'No,  you  can't;  you  don't  know  the  way,  and  even 
if  you  did  you  don't  know  where  they  are." 

Neither  Sarah  nor  Grover  made  any  remark,  and  in 
silence  the  servants  went  to  their  rooms.  Margaret 
closed  the  door  and  turned  to  look  at  Esther,  who  had 
fallen  on  the  chair,  her  eyes  fixed  in  vacancy. 

"I  know  what  it  is;  I  was  the  same  when  Jim  Story 
got  the  sack.  It  seems  as  if  one  couldn't  live  through 
it,  and  yet  one  does  somehow." 

"I  wonder  if  they'll  marry." 

*'Most  probable.     She  has  a  lot  of  money. " 

Two  days  after  a  cab  stood  in  the  yard  in  front  of 
the  kitchen  window.  Peggy's  luggage  was  being 
piled  upon  it — two  large,  handsome  basket  boxes  with 
the  initials  painted  on  them.  Kneeling  on  the  box- 
seat,  the  coachman  leaned  over  the  roof  making  room 
for  another — a  small  box  covered  with  red  cowhide  and 
tied  with  a  rough  rope.  The  little  box  in  its  poor 
simplicity  brought  William  back  to  Esther,  whelming 
her  for  a  moment  in  so  acute  a  sense  of  her  loss  that 
she  had  to  leave  the  kitchen.  She  went  into  the  scul- 
lery, drew  the  door  after  her,  sat  down,  and  hid  her 
face  in  her  apron.  A  stifled  sob  or  two,  and  then  she 
recovered  her  habitual  gravity  of  expression,  and  con? 
tinued  her  work  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 


XIL 

*'They  are  jnst  crazy  about  it  upstairs.  Ginger  and 
the  Gaffer  are  the  worst.  They  say  they  had  better 
sell  the  place  and  build  another  house  somewhere  else. 
None  of  the  county  people  will  call  on  them  now — and 
just  as  they  were  beginning  to  get  on  so  well!  Miss 
:\Iary,  too,  is  terrible  cut  up  about  it ;  she  says  it  will 
interfere  with  her  prospects,  and  that  Ginger  has  noth- 
ing to  do  now  but  to  marry  the  kitchen-maid  to  com- 
plete the  ruin  of  the  Barfields. " 

' '  Miss  Mary  is  far  too  kind  to  say  anything  to  wound 
another's  feelings.  It  is  only  a  nasty  old  deceitful 
thing  like  yourself  who  could  think  of  such  a  thing." 

"Eh,  you  got  it  there,  my  lady,"  said  Sarah,  who 
had  had  a  difference  with  Grover,  and  was  anxious  to 
avenge  it. 

Grover  looked  at  Sarah  in  astonishment,  and  her  look 
clearly  said,  "Is  everyone  going  to  side  with  that  little 
kitchen-maid?" 

Then,  to  flatter  Mrs.  Latch,  Sarah  spoke  of  the 
position  the  Latches  had  held  three  generations  ago ; 
the  Barfields  were  then  nobodies;  they  had  nothing 
even  now  but  their  money,  and  that  had  come  out  of  a 
livery  stable.  "And  it  shows,  too;  just  compare  Gin- 
ger with  young  Preston  or  young  Northcote.  Anyone 
could  tell  the  difference. ' ' 

Esther  listened  with  an  unmoved  face  and  a  heavy 
ache  in  her  heart.     She  had  now  not  an  enemy  nor  yet 

109 


\ 


no  ESTHER    WATERS 

an  opponent;  the  cause  of  rivalry  and  jealousy  being 
removed,  all  were  sorry  for  her.  They  recognised  that 
she  had  suffered  and  was  suffering,  and  seeing  none 
but  friends  about  her,  she  was  led  to  think  how 
happy  she  might  have  been  in  this  beautiful  house  if 
it  had  not  been  for  William.  She  loved  her  work,  for 
she  was  working  for  those  she  loved.  She  could  imag- 
ine no  life  happier  than  hers  might  have  been.  But 
she  had  sinned,  and  the  Lord  had  punished  her  for 
sin,  and  she  must  bear  her  punishment  uncomplain- 
ingly, giving  Him  thanks  that  He  had  imposed  no 
heavier  one  upon  her. 

Such  reflection  was  the  substance  of  Esther's  mind 
for  three  months  after  William's  departure;  and  in  the 
afternoons,  about  three  o'clock,  when  her  work 
paused,  Esther's  thoughts  would  congregate  and  settle 
on  the  great  misfortune  of  her  life — William's  deser- 
tion. 

It  was  one  afternoon  at  the  beginning  of  December ; 
Mrs.  Latch  had  gone  upstairs  to  lie  down.  Esther  had 
drawn  her  chair  towards  the  fire.  A  broken-down 
race-horse,  his  legs  bandaged  from  his  knees  to  his 
fetlocks,  had  passed  up  the  yard;  he  was  going  for 
walking  exercise  on  the  downs,  and  when  the  sound  of 
his  hoofs  had  died  away  Esther  was  quite  alone.  She 
sat  on  her  wooden  chair  facing  the  wide  kitchen  win- 
dow. She  had  advanced  one  foot  on  the  iron  fender; 
her  head  leaned  back,  rested  on  her  hand.  She  did 
not  think — her  mind  was  lost  in  vague  sensation  of 
William,  and  it  was  in  this  death  of  active  memory 
that  something  awoke  within  her,  something  that 
seemed  to  her  like  a  flutter  of  wings;  her  heart 
seemed  to  drop  from  its  socket,  and  she  nearly  fainted 


ESTHER    WATERS  m 

away,  but  recovering  herself  she  stood  by  the  kitchen 
table,  her  arms  drawn  back  and  pressed  to  her  sides,  a 
death-like  pallor  over  her  face,  and  drops  of  sweat  on 
her  forehead.     The  truth  was  borne  in  upon  her ;  she 
realised  in  a  moment  part  of  the  awful  drama  that 
awaited  her,  and  from  which  nothing  could  free  her, 
and  which  she  would  have  to   live  through  hour  by 
hour.     So  dreadful  did  it  seem,  that  she  thought  her 
brain  must  give  way.     She  would  have  to  leave  Wood- 
view.      Oh,  the  shame  of  confession!     Mrs.  Barfield, 
who  had  been    so   good  to  her,  and   who   thought  so 
highly  of  her.     Her  father  would  not  have  her  at  home ;  I 
she  would  be  homeless  in  London.     No  hope  of  obtain- 1 
ing  a  situation.     .     .     .     they   would  send  her  away! 
without  a  character,  homeless  in  London,   and  every! 
month  her  position  growing  more  desperate.     .     .     .      | 

A  sickly  faintness  crept  up  through  her.  The  flesh  | 
had  come  to  the  relief  of  the  spirit ;  and  she  sank  upon  i 
her  chair,  almost  unconscious,  sick,  it  seemed,  toj 
death,  and  she  rose  from  the  chair  wiping  her  forehead  | 
slowly  with  her  apron.  .  .  .  She  might  be  mis-  j 
taken.  And  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  then,  1 
falling  on  her  knees,  her  arms  thrown  forward  upon  1 
the  table,  she  prayed  for  strength  to  walk  without  \ 
flinching  under  any  cross  that  He  had  thought  fit  to  '• 
lay  upon  her.  \ 

There  was  still  the  hope  that  she  might  be  mistaken ;  -' 
and  this  hope  lasted  for  one  week,  for  two,  but  at  the  : 
end  of  the  third  week  it  perished,  and  she  abandoned  : 
herself  in  prayer.  She  prayed  for  strength  to  endure  i 
with  courage  what  she  now  knew  she  must  endure,  \ 
and  she  prayed  for  light  to  guide  her  in  her  present  \ 
decision.     Mrs.  Barfield,  however  much  she  might  pity 


lia  ESTHER    WATERS 

her,  could  not  keep  her  once  she  knew  the  truth, 
whereas  none  might  know  the  truth  if  she  did  not  tell 
it.  She  might  remain  at  Woodview  earning  another 
quarter's  wages;  the  first  she  had  spent  on  boots  and 
clothes,  the  second  she  had  just  been  paid.  If  she 
stayed  on  for  another  quarter  she  would  have  eight 
pounds,  and  with  that  money,  and  much  less  time  to 
keep  herself,  she  might  be  able  to  pull  through.  But 
would  she  be  able  to  go  undetected  for  nearly  three 
whole  months,  until  her  next  wages  came  due?  She 
must  risk  it. 

Three  months  of  constant  fear  and  agonising  sus- 
pense wore  away,  and  no  one,  not  even  Margaret,  sus- 
pected Esther's  condition.  Encouraged  by  her 
success,  and  seeing  still  very  little  sign  of  change  in 
her  person,  and  as  every  penny  she  could  earn  was  of 
vital  consequence  in  the  coming  time,  Esther  deter- 
mined to  risk  another  month;  then  she  would  give 
notice  and  leave.  Another  month  passed,  and  Esther 
was  preparing  for  departure  when  a  whisper  went 
round,  and  before  she  could  take  steps  to  leave  she  was 
told  that  Mrs.  Barfield  wished  to  see  her  in  the  library. 
Esther  turned  a  little  pale,  and  the  expression  of  her 
face  altered;  it  seemed  to  her  impossible  to  go  before 
Mrs.  Barfield  and  admit  her  shame.  Margaret,  who 
was  standing  near  and  saw  what  was  passing  in  her 
mind,  said — 

"Pull  yourself  together,  Esther.  You  know  the 
Saint — she's  not  a  bad  sort.  Like  all  the  real  good 
ones,  she  is  kind  enough  to  the  faults  of  others. ' ' 

"What's  this?  What's  the  matter  with  Esther?"  said 
Mrs.  Latch,  who  had  not  yet  heard  of  Esther's  mis- 
fortune. 


ESTHER    WATERS  113 

**ril  tell  you  presently,  Mrs.  Latch.  Go,  dear,  get 
it  over." 

Esther  hurried  down  the  passage  and  passed 
through  the  baize  door  without  further  thought.  She 
had  then  but  to  turn  to  the  left  and  a  few  steps  would 
bring  her  to  the  library  door.  The  room  was  already 
present  in  her  mind.  She  could  see  it.  The  dim 
light,  the  little  green  sofa,  the  round  table  covered 
with  books,  the  piano  at  the  back,  the  parrot  in  the 
comer,  and  the  canaries  in  the  window.  She  knocked 
at  the  door.  The  well-known  voice  said,  "Come  in." 
She  turned  the  handle,  and  found  herself  alone  with 
her  mistress.  Mrs.  Barfield  laid  down  the  book  she 
was  reading,  and  looked  up.  She  did  not  look  as 
angry  as  Esther  had  imagined,  but  her  voice  was 
harder  than  usual. 

"Is  this  true,  Esther?** 

Esther  hung  down  her  head.  She  could  not  speak 
at  first;  then  she  said,  "Yes." 

' '  I  thought  you  were  a  good  girl,  Esther.  *y 

"So  did  I,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Barfield  looked  at  the  girl  quickly,  hesitated  a 
moment,  and  then  said — 

"And  all  this  time — how  long  is  it?*' 

"Nearly  seven  months,  ma'am." 

"And  all  this  time  you  were  deceiving  us.'* 

"I  was  three  months  gone  before  I  knew  it  myself, 
ma'am." 

"Three  months!  Then  for  three  months  you  have 
knelt  every  Sunday  in  prayer  in  this  room,  for  twelve 
Sundays  you  sat  by  me  learning  to  read,  and  you  never 
said  a  word?" 

A  certain  harshness  in  Mrs.  Barfield's  voice  awak- 


114  ESTHER    WATERS 

ened  a  rebellious  spirit  in  Esther,  and  a  lowering 
expression  gathered  above  her  eyes.     She  said — 

''Had  I  told  you,  you  would  have  sent  me  away  then 
and  there.  I  had  only  a  quarter's  wages,  and  should 
have  starved  or  gone  and  drowned  myself." 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  you  speak  like  that,  Esther." 

"It  is  trouble  that  makes  me,  ma'am,  and  I  have  had 
a  great  deal." 

"Why  did  you  not  confide  in  me?  I  have  not  shown 
myself  cruel  to  you,  have  I?" 

"No,  indeed,  ma'am.  You  are  the  best  mistress  a 
servant  ever  had,  but " 

"But  what?" 

"Why,  ma'am,  it  is  this  way.  .  .  .  I  hated  being 
deceitful — indeed  I  did.  But  I  can  no  longer  think  of 
myself.     There  is  another  to  think  for  now." 

There  was  in  Mrs.  Barfield's  look  something  akin  to 
admiration,  and  she  felt  she  had  not  been  wholly  wrong 
in  her  estimate  of  the  girl's  character;  she  said,  and 
in  a  different  intonation — 

"Perhaps  you  were  right,  Esther.  I  couldn't  have 
kept  you  on,  on  account  of  the  bad  example  to  the 
younger  servants.  I  might  have  helped  you  with 
money.  But  six  months  alone  in  London  and  in  your 
condition!  ...  I  am  glad  you  did  not  tell  me, 
Esther;  and  as  you  say  there  is  another  to  think  of 
now,  I  hope  you  will  never  neglect  your  child,  if  God 
give  it  to  5"ou  alive." 

"I  hope  not,  ma'am;  I  shall  try  and  do  my  best." 

"My  poor  girl!  my  poor  girl!  you  do  not  know  what 
trial  is  in  store  for  you.  A  girl  like  you,  and  only 
twenty!  .  .  .  Oh,  it  is  a  shame!  May  God  give 
you  courage  to  bear  up  in  your  adversity!" 


ESTHER    WATERS  115 

**I  know  there  is  many  a  hard  time  before  me,  but  I 
have  prayed  for  strength,  and  God  will  give  me 
strength,  and  I  must  not  complain.  My  case  is  not  so 
bad  as  many  another.  I  have  nearly  eight  pounds. 
I  shall  get  on,  ma'am,  that  is  to  say  if  you  will  stand 
by  me  and  not  refuse  me  a  character. ' ' 

"Can  I  give  you  a  character?  You  were  tempted, 
you  were  led  into  temptation.  I  ought  to  have 
watched  over  you  better — mine  is  the  responsibility. 
Tell  me,  it  was  not  your  fault."  ^^^^ 

"It  is  always  a  woman's    fault,   ma'am.      But    he   ^  ^ 
should  not  have  deserted  me  as  he  did,  that's  the  only    ' 
thing  I  reproach  him  with,  the  rest  was  my  fault-J 
shouldn't    have    touched    the    second    glass    of    ale. 
Besides,  I  was  in  love  with  him,  and  you  know  what  •  V/^ 
that  is.     I  thought  no  harm,  and  I  let  him  kiss  me.  £^ 
He  used  to  take  me  out  for  walks  on  the  hill  and  round  i  y^^ 
the  farm.     He  told  me  he  loved  me,  and  would  make^V* 
me  his  wife — that's  how  it  was.     Afterwards  he  asked  ^»a^ 
me  to  wait  till  after  the  Leger,  and  that  riled  me,  and  ^^ 
I  knew  then  how  wicked  I  had  been.     I  would  not  go  i/     ^ 
out  with  him  or  speak  to  him  any  more ;  and  while  our    ''  '^^ 
quarrel  was  going  on  Miss  Peggy  went  after  him,  and 
that's  how  I  got  left." 

At  the  mention  of  Peggy's  name  a  cloud  passed  over 
Mrs.  Barfield's  face.  "You  have  been  shamefully 
treated,  my  poor  child.  I  knew  nothing  of  all  this. 
So  he  said  he  would  marry  you  if  he  won  his  bet  on 
the  Leger?  Oh,  that  betting!  I  know  that  nothing 
else  is  thought  of  here;  upstairs  and  downstairs,  the 
whole  place  is  poisoned  with  it,  and  it  is  the  fault  of — " 
Mrs.  Barfield  walked  hurriedly  across  the  room,  but 
when  she  turned  the  sight  of  Esther  provoked  her  into 


Ii6  ESTHER     WATERS 

speech.  '*I  have  seen  it  all  my  life,  nothing  else,  and 
I  have  seen  nothing-  come  of  it  but  sin  and  sorrow ; 
you  are  not  the  first  victim.  Ah,  what  ruin,  what 
misery,  what  death!" 

Mrs.  Barfield  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  as  if 
to  shut  out  the  memories  that  crowded  upon  her. 

"I  think,  ma'am,  if  you  will  excuse  my  saying  so, 
that  a  great  deal  of  harm  do  come  from  this  betting  on 
race-horses.  The  day  when  you  was  all  away  at  Good- 
wood when  the  horse  won,  I  went  down  to  see  what 
the  sea  was  like  here.  I  was  brought  up  by  the  sea- 
side, at  Barnstaple.  On  the  beach  I  met  Mrs.  Leopold, 
that  is  to  say  Mrs.  Randal,  John's  wife;  she  seemed 
to  be  in  great  trouble,  she  looked  that  melancholy,  and 
for  company's  sake  she  asked  me  to  come  home  to  tea 
with  her.  She  was  in  that  state  of  mind,  ma'am,  that 
she  forgot  the  teaspoons  were  in  pawn,  and  when  she 
could  not  give  me  one  she  broke  down  completely,  and 
told  me  what  her  troubles  had  been." 

•'What  did  she  tell  you,  Esther?" 

"I  hardly  remember,  ma'am,  but  it  was  all  the  same 
thing — ruin  if  the  horse  didn't  win,  and  more  betting 
if  he  did.  But  she  said  they  never  had  been  in  such  a 
fix  as  the  day  Silver  Braid  won.  If  he  had  been 
beaten  they  would  have  been  thrown  out  on  the  street, 
and  from  what  I  have  heard  the  best  half  of  the  town 
too." 
/  "So  that  little  man  has  suffered.  I  thought  he  was 
wiser  than  the  rest.  .  .  .  This  house  has  been  the 
ruin  of  the  neighbourhood;  we  have  dispensed  vice 
instead  of  righteousness."  Walking  towards  the  win- 
\  dow,  Mrs.  Barfield  continued  to  talk  to  herself.  "I 
have  struggled  against  the  evil  all  my  life,  and  without 


ESTHER     WATERS  II7 

result.     How  much  more  misery  shall  I  see  come  of^ 
it?"     Turning  then  to  Esther  she  said,  "Yes,  the  bet- 
ting is  an  evil — one  from  which  many  have  suffered — 
but  the  question  is  now  about  yourself,  Esther.     How 
much  money  have  you?"  ^^-^^ 

"I  have  about  eight  pounds,  ma'am." 

"And  how  much  do  you  reckon  will  see  you  through 
it?" 

"I  don't  know,  ma'am,  I  have  no  experience.  I 
think  father  will  let  me  stay  at  home  if  I  can  pay  my 
way.  I  could  manage  easily  on  seven  shillings  a 
week.  When  my  time  comes  I  shall  go  to  the  hos- 
pital." 

While  Esther  spoke  Mrs.  Barfield  calculated  roughly 
that  about  ten  pounds  would  meet  most  of  her  wants. 
Her  train  fare,  two  months'  board  at  seven  shillings  a 
week,  the  room  she  would  have  to  take  near  the  hos- 
pital before  her  confinement,  and  to  which  she  would 
return  with  her  baby — all  these  would  run  to  about 
four  or  five  pounds.  There  would  be  baby's  clothes 
to  buy.  ...  If  she  gave  four  pounds  Esther 
would  have  then  twelve  pounds,  and  with  that  she 
would  be  able  to  manage.  Mrs.  Barfield  went  over  to 
an  old-fashioned  escritoire,  and,  pulling  out  some 
small  drawers,  took  from  one  some  paper  packages 
which  she  unfolded.  "Now,  my  girl,  look  here. 
I'm  going  to  give  you  four  pounds;  then  you  will 
have  twelve,  and  that  ought  to  see  you  through  your 
trouble.  You  have  been  a  good  servant,  Esther;  I  like 
you  very  much,  and  am  truly  sorry  to  part  with  you. 
You  will  write  and  tell  me  how  you  are  getting  on,  and 
if  one  of  these  days  you  want  a  place,  and  I  have  one 
to  give  you,  I  shall  be  glad  to  take  you  back.'* 


Ii8  ESTHER    WATERS 

Harshness  deadened  and  hardened  her  feelings,  yet 
she  was  easily  moved  by  kindness,  and  she  longed  to 
throw  herself  at  her  mistress's  feet;  but  her  nature 
did  not  admit  of  such  effusion,  and  she  said,  in  her 
blunt  English  way — 

"You  are  far  too  good,  ma'am;  I  do  not  deserve 
such  treatment — I  know  I  don't." 

*'Sayno  more,  Esther.  I  hope  that  the  Lord  may 
give  you  strength  to  bear  your  cross.  .  .  .  Now 
go  and  pack  up  your  box.  But,  Esther,  do  j^ou  feel 
your  sin,  can  you  truly  say  honestly  before  God  that 
you  repent?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  think  I  can  say  all  that." 

"Then,  Esther,  come  and  kneel  down  and  pray  to 
God  to  give  you  strength  in  the  future  to  stand 
against  temptation." 

Mrs.  Barfield  took  Esther's  hand  and  they  knelt 
down  by  the  round  table,  leaning  their  hands  on  its 
edge.  And,  in  a  high,  clear  voice,  Mrs.  Barfield 
prayed  aloud,  Esther  repeating  the  words  after  her — 

"Dear  Lord,  Thou  knowest  all  things,  knowest  how 
Thy  servant  has  strayed  and  has  fallen  into  sin.  But 
Thou  hast  said  there  is  more  joy  in  heaven  over  one  sin- 
ner that  repenteth  than  over  ninety  and  nine  just  men. 
Therefore,  Lord,  kneeling  here  before  Thee,  we  pray 
that  this  poor  girl,  who  repents  of  the  evil  she  has 
done,  may  be  strengthened  in  Thy  mercy  to  stand 
firm  against  temptation.  Forgive  her  sin,  even  as 
Thou  forgavest  the  woman  of  Samaria.  Give  her 
strength  to  walk  uprightly  before  Thee,  and  give  her 
strength  to  bear  the  pain  and  the  suffering  that  lie 
before  her. " 

The  women  rose  from  their  knees  and  stood  looking 


ESTHER    WATERS  II9 

at  each  other.  Esther's  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  With- 
out speaking  she  turned  to  go. 

*'One  word  more,  Esther.  You  asked  me  just  now 
for  a  character ;  I  hesitated,  but  it  seems  to  me  now 
that  it  would  be  wrong  to  refuse.  If  I  did  you  might 
never  get  a  place,  and  then  it  would  be  impossible  to 
say  what  might  happen.  I  am  not  certain  that  I  am 
doing  right,  but  I  know  what  it  means  to  refuse  to 
give  a  servant  a  character,  and  I  cannot  take  upon 
myself  the  responsibility." 

Mrs.  Barfield  wrote  out  a  character  for  Esther,  in 
which  she  described  her  as  an  honest,  hard-working 
girl.  She  paused  at  the  word  ''reliable,"  and  wrote 
instead,  "I  believe  her  to  be  at  heart  a  thoroughly 
religious  girl. '  * 

She  went  upstairs  to  pack  her  box,  and  when  she 
came  down  she  found  all  the  women  in  the  kitchen ; 
evidently  they  were  waiting  for  her.  Coming  forward, 
Sarah  said — 

"I  hope  we  shall  part  friends,  Esther;  any  quarrels 
we  may  have  had — —  There's  no  ill-feeling  now,  is 
there?" 

"I  bear  no  one  any  ill-feeling.  We  have  been 
friends  these  last  months ;  indeed,  everyone  has  been 
very  kind  to  me."  And  Esther  kissed  Sarah  on  both 
cheeks. 

"I'm  sure  we're  all  sorry  to  lose  you,*'  said  Mar- 
garet, pressing  forward,  "and  we  hope  you'll  write  and 
let  us  know  how  you  are  getting  on." 

Margaret,  who  was  a  tender-hearted  girl,  began  to 
cry,  and,  kissing  Esther,  she  declared  that  she  had 
never  got  on  with  a  girl  who  slept  in  her  room  so  well 
before.     Esther  shook  hands  with  Grover,  and  then 


120  ESTHER    WATERS 

her  eyes  met  Mrs.  Latch's.     The  old  woman  took  her 
in  her  arms. 

**It  breaks  my  heart  to  think  that  one  belonging  to 

me  should  have  done  you  such  a  wrong But  if 

you  want  for  anything  let  me  know,  and  you  shall  have 
it.     You  will  want  money;  I  have  some  here  for  you.'* 

'*  Thank  you,  thank  you,  but  I  have  all  I  want. 
Mrs.  Barfield  has  been  very  good  to  me." 

The  babbling  of  so  many  voices  drew  Mr.  Leopold 
from  the  pantry ;  he  came  with  a  glass  of  beer  in  his 
hand,  and  this  suggested  a  toast  to  Sarah.  *' Let's 
drink  baby's  health,"  she  said.  "Mr.  Leopold  won't 
refuse  us  the  beer." 

The  idea  provoked  some  good-natured  laughter,  and 
Esther  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  tried  to  get  away. 
But  Margaret  would  not  allow  her.  "What  non- 
sense!" she  said.  "We  don't  think  any  the  worse  of 
you ;  why,  that's  an  accident  that  might  happen  to  any 
of  us." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Esther. 

The  jug  of  beer  was  finished;  she  was  kissed  and 
hugged  again,  some  tears  were  shed,  and  Esther 
walked  down  the  yard  through  the  stables. 

The  avenue  was  full  of  wind  and  rain ;  the  branches 
creaked  dolefully  overhead;  the  lane  was  drenched, 
and  the  bare  fields  were  fringed  with  white  mist,  and 
the  houses  seemed  very  desolate  by  the  bleak  sea; 
and  the  girl's  soul  was  desolate  as  the  landscape.  She 
had  come  to  Woodview  to  escape  the  suffering  of  a 
home  which  had  become  unendurable,  and  she  was 
going  back  in  circumstances  a  hundred  times  worse 
than  those  in  which  she  had  left  it,  and  she  was  going 
back  with  the  memory  of  the  happiness  she  had  lost. 


ESTHER     WATERS  121 

All  the  grief  and  trouble  that  girls  of  her  class  have  so^f/  i.^- 
frequently  to  bear  gathered  in  Esther's  heart  when  shel'/ 
looked  out  of  the  railway  carriage  window  and  saw  for 
the  last  time  the  stiff  plantations  on  the  downs  and  the 
angles  of  the  Italian  house  between  the  trees.  She 
drew  her  handkerchief  from  her  jacket,  and  hid  her 
distress  as  well  as  she  could  from  the  other  occupants 
of  the  carriage, 


XIII. 

When  she  arrived  at  Victoria  it  was  raining.  She 
picked  up  her  skirt,  and  as  she  stepped  across  a  pud- 
dle a  wild  and  watery  wind  swept  up  the  wet  streets, 
catching  her  full  in  the  face. 

She  had  left  her  box  in  the  cloak-room,  for  she  did 
not  know  if  her  father  would  have  her  at  home.  Her 
mother  would  tell  her  what  she  thought,  but  no  one 
could  say  for  certain  what  he  would  do.  If  she 
brought  the  box  he  might  fling  it  after  her  into  the 
street ;  better  come  without  it,  even  if  she  had  to  go 
back  through  the  wet  to  fetch  it.  At  that  moment 
another  gust  drove  the  rain  violently  over  her,  forcing 
it  through'  her  boots.  The  sky  was  a  tint  of  ashen 
grey,  and  all  the  low  brick  buildings  were  veiled  in 
vapour;  the  rough  roadway  was  full  of  pools,  and 
nothing  was  heard  but  the  melancholy  bell  of  the  tram- 
car.  She  hesitated,  not  wishing  to  spend  a  penny 
unnecessarily,  but  remembering  that  a  penny  wise  is 
often  a  pound  foolish  she  called  to  the  driver  and  got 
in.  The  car  passed  by  the  little  brick  street  where  the 
Saunders  lived,  and  when  Esther  pushed  the  door  open 
she  could  see  into  the  kitchen  and  overhear  the  voices 
of  the  children.  Mrs.  Saunders  was  sweeping  down 
the  stairs,  but  at  the  sound  of  footsteps  she  ceased  to 
bang  the  broom,  and,  stooping  till  her  head  looked  over 
the  banisters,  she  cried — 

•*Who  is  it?" 

** Me,  mother." 

122 


ESTHER    WATERS  123 

"What!     You,  Esther?" 

"Yes,  mother." 

Mrs.  Saunders  hastened  down,  and,  leaning  the 
broom  against  the  wall,  she  took  her  daughter  in  her 
arms  and  kissed  her.  "Well,  this  is  nice  to  see  you 
again,  after  this  long  while.  But  you  are  looking  a  bit 
poorly,  Esther."  Then  her  face  changed  expression. 
"What  has  happened?     Have  you  lost  your  situation?" 

"Yes,  mother." 

"Oh,  I  am  that  sorry,  for  we  thought  you  was  so 
'appy  there  and  liked  your  mistress  above  all  those 
you  'ad  ever  met  with.  Did  you  lose  your  temper  and 
answer  her  back?  They  is  often  trying,  I  know  that, 
and  your  own  temper — you  was  never  very  sure  of  it. ' ' 

"I've  no  fault  to  find  with  my  mistress;  she  is  the 
kindest  in  the  world — none  better, — and  my  temper — it 

wasn't  that,  mother " 

"My  own  darling,  tell  me " 


Esther  paused.  The  children  had  ceased  talking  in 
the  kitchen,  and  the  front  door  was  open.  "Come 
into  the  parlour.  We  can  talk  quietly  there.  .  .  . 
When  do  you  expect  father  home?" 

"Not  for  the  best  part  of  a  couple  of  hours  yet." 

Mrs.  Saunders  waited  until  Esther  had  closed  the 
front  door.  Then  they  went  into  the  parlour  and  sat 
down  side  by  side  on  the  little  horsehair  sofa  placed 
against  the  wall  facing  the  window.  The  anxiety  in 
their  hearts  betrayed  itself  on  their  faces. 

"I  had  to  leave,  mother.     I'm  seven  months  gone." 

"Oh,  Esther,  Esther,  I  cannot  believe  it!" 

"Yes,  mother,  it  is  quite  true." 

Esther  hurried  through  her  story,  and  when  her 
mother  questioned  her  regarding  details  she  said — 


124  ESTHER    WATERS 

"Oh,  mother,  what  does  it  matter?  I  don't  care  to 
talk  about  it  more  than  I  can  help. ' ' 

Tears  had  begun  to  roll  down  Mrs.  Saunders' 
cheeks,  and  when  she  wiped  them  away  with  the  comer 
of  her  apron,  Esther  heard  a  sob. 

"Don't  cry,  mother,"  said  Esther.  "I  have  been 
very  wicked,  I  know,  but  God  will  be  good  to  me.  I 
always  pray  to  him,  just  as  you  taught  me  to  do,  and  I 
daresay  I  shall  get  through  my  trouble  somehow. ' ' 

"Your  father  will  never  let  you  stop  'ere;  'e' 11  say, 
just  as  afore,  that  there  be  too  many  mouths  to  feed 
as  it  is. ' ' 

"I  don't  want  him  to  keep  me  for  nothing — I  know 
well  enough  if  I  did  that  'e'd  put  me  outside  quick 
enough.  But  I  can  pay  my  way.  I  earned  good 
money  while  I  was  with  the  Barfields,  and  though  she 
did  tell  me  I  must  go,  Mrs.  Barfield — the  Saint  they 
call  her,  and  she  is  a  saint  if  ever  there  was  one — gave 
me  four  pounds  to  see  me,  as  she  said,  through  my 
trouble.  I've  better  than  eleven  pound.  Don't  cry, 
mother  dear;  crying  won't  do  no  good,  and  I  want 
you  to  help  me.  So  long  as  the  money  holds  out  I  can 
get  a  lodging  anywhere,  but  I'd  like  to  be  near  you; 
and  father  might  be  glad  to  let  me  have  the  parlour 
and  my  food  for  ten  or  eleven  shillings  a  week — I 
could  afford  as  much  as  that,  and  he  never  was  the 
man  to  turn  good  money  from  his  door.  Do  yer  think 
he  will?" 

"I  dunno,   dearie;    'tis  hard  to  say  what  *e'll  do; 

he's  a  'ard  man  to  live  with.     I've  'ad  a  terrible  time 

of  it  lately,  and  them  babies  alius  coming.     Ah,  we 

poor  women  have  more  than  our  right  to  bear  with!" 

**Poor    mother!"     said    Esthef,     and,    taking   her 


ESTHER    WATERS  125 

mother's  hand  in  hers,  she  passed  her  arm  round  her, 
drew  her  closer,  and  kissed  her.  "I  know  what  he 
was;  is  he  any  worse  now?" 

"Well,  I  think  he  drinks  more,  and  is  even  rougher. 
It  was  only  the  other  day,  just  as  I  was  attending  to 
his  dinner — it  was  a  nice  piece  of  steak,  and  it  looked 
so  nice  that  I  cut  ofiE  a  weany  piece  to  taste.  He  sees 
me  do  it,  and  he  cries  out,  'Now  then,  guts,  what  are 
you  interfering  with  my  dinner  for?'  I  says,  'I  only 
cut  off  a  tiny  piece  to  taste.'  'Well,  then,  taste  that,' 
he  says,  and  strikes  me  clean  between  the  eyes.  Ah, 
yes,  lucky  for  you  to  be  in  service ;  you've  half  forgot 
by  now  what  we've  to  put  up  with  'ere." 

"You  was  always  that  soft  with  him,  mother;  he 
never  touched  me  since  I  dashed  the  hot  water  in  his 
face." 

"Sometimes  I  thinks  I  can  bear  it  no  longer,  Esther, 
and  long  to  go  and  drown  meself.  Jenny  and  Julia 
— you  remember  little  Julia;  she  'as  grown  up  such 
a  big  girl,  and  is  getting  on  so  well — they  are  both 
at  work  now  in  the  kitchen.  Johnnie  gives  us  a 
deal  of  trouble;  he  cannot  tell  a  word  of  truth;  father 
took  off  his  strap  the  other  day  and  beat  him  dreadful, 
but  it  ain't  no  use.  If  it  wasn't  for  Jenny  and  Julia  I 
don't  think  we  should  ever  make  both  ends  meet;  but 
they  works  all  day  at  the  dogs,  and  at  the  warehouse 
their  dogs  is  said  to  be  neater  and  more  lifelike  than 
any  other.  Their  poor  fingers  is  worn  away  cramming 
the  paper  into  the  moulds ;  but  they  never  complains, 
no  more  shouldn't  I  if  he  was  a  bit  gentler  and  didn't 
take  more  than  half  of  what  he  earns  to  the  public- 
'ouse.  I  was  glad  you  was  away,  Esther,  for  you  alius 
was  of  an  'asty  temper  and  couldn't  'ave  borne  it.     I 


126  ESTHER    WATERS 

don't  want  to  make  my  troubles  seem  worse  than  they 
be,  but  sometimes  I  think  I  will  break  up,  'special 
when  I  get  to  thinking  what  will  become  of  us  and  all 
them  children,  money  growing  less  and  expenses 
increasing.  I  haven't  told  yer,  but  I  daresay  you  have 
noticed  that  another  one  is  coming.  It  is  the  children 
that  breaks  us  poor  women  down  altogether.  Ah, 
well,  yours  be  the  hardest  trouble,  but  you  must  put  a 
brave  face  on  it;  we'll  do  the  best  we  can;  none  of  us 
can  say  no  more." 

Mrs.  Saunders  wiped  her  eyes  with  the  comer  of  her 
apron;  Esther  looked  at  her  with  her  usual  quiet, 
stubborn  stare,  and  without  further  words  mother  and 
daughter  went  into  the  kitchen  where  the  girls  were  at 
work.  It  was  a  long,  low  room,  with  one  window 
looking  on  a  small  back-yard,  at  the  back  of  which  was 
the  coal-hole,  the  dust-bin,  and  a  small  outhouse. 
There  was  a  long  table  and  a  bench  ran  along  the  wall. 
The  fireplace  was  on  the  left-hand  side;  the  dresser 
stood  against  the  opposite  wall;  and  amid  the  poor 
crockery,  piled  about  in  every  available  space,  were 
the  toy  dogs,  some  no  larger  than  your  hand,  others 
almost  as  large  as  a  small  poodle.  Jenny  and  Julia 
had  been  working  busily  for  some  days,  and  were  now 
finishing  the  last  few  that  remained  of  the  order  they 
had  received  from  the  shop  they  worked  for.  Three 
small  children  sat  on  the  floor  tearing  the  brown  paper, 
which  they  handed  as  it  was  wanted  to  Jenny  and  Julia. 
The  big  girls  leaned  over  the  table  in  front  of  iron 
moulds,  filling  them  with  brown  paper,  pasting  it 
dowUj  tucking  it  in  with  strong  and  dexterous  fingers. 

"Why,  it  is  Esther!"  said  Jenny,  the  elder  girl. 
*'And,  lorks,  ain't  she  grand!— quite  the  lady.     Why, 


ESTHER    WATERS  127 

we  hardly  knowed  ye. ' '  And  having  kissed  their  sister 
circumspectly,  careful  not  to  touch  the  clothes  they 
admired  with  their  pasty  fingers,  they  stood  lost  in 
contemplation,  thrilled  with  consciousness  of  the 
advantage  of  service. 

Esther  took  Harry,  a  fine  little  boy  of  four,  up  in  her 
arms,  and  asked  him  if  he  remembered  her. 

*'Naw,  I  don't  think  I  do.     Will  00  put  me  down?'* 

"But  you  do,  Lizzie?"  she  said,  addressing  a  girl  of 
seven,  whose  bright  red  hair  shone  like  a  lamp  in  the 
gathering  twilight. 

"Yes,  you're  my  big  sister;  you've  been  away  this 
year  or  more  in  service." 

"And  you,  Maggie,  do  you  remember  me  too?" 

Maggie  at  first  seemed  doubtful,  but  after  a 
moment's  reflection  she  nodded  her  head  vigorously. 

"Come,  Esther,  see  how  Julia  is  getting  on,"  said 
Mrs.  Saunders;  "she  makes  her  dogs  nearly  as  fast  as 
Jenny.  She  is  still  a  bit  careless  in  drawing  the  paper 
into  the  moulds.  Well,  just  as  I  was  speaking  of  it :  'ere's 
a  dog  with  one  shoulder  just  'arf  the  size  of  the  other. " 

"Oh,  mother,  I'm  sure  nobody 'd  never  know  the 
difference." 

"Wouldn't  know  the  difference!  Just  look  at  the 
hanimal!  Is  it  natural?  Sich  carelessness  I  never 
seed." 

"Esther,  just  look  at  Julia's  dog,"  cried  Jenny,  "  'e 
'asn't  got  no  more  than  arf  a  shoulder.  It's  lucky 
mother  saw  it,  for  if  the  manager'd  seen  it  he'd  have 
found  something  wrong  with  I  don't  know  *ow  many 
more,  and  docked  us  maybe  a  shilling  or  more  on  the 
week's  work." 

Julia  began  to  cry. 
6 


128  ESTHER    WATERS 

* 'Jenny  is  always  down  on  me.  She  is  jealous  just 
because  mother  said  I  worked  as  fast  as  she  did.  If 
her  work  was  overhauled " 

''There  are  all  my  dogs  there  on  the  right-hand  side 
of  the  dresser — I  always  'as  the  right  for  my  dogs 
— and  if  you  find  one  there  with  an  uneven  shoulder 
I'll—" 

* 'Jennie  is  so  fat  that  she  likes  everything  like  'erself ; 
that's  why  she  stuffs  so  much  paper  into  her  dogs." 

It  was  little  Ethel  speaking  from  her  corner,  and  her 
explanation  of  the  excellence  of  Jenny's  dogs,  given 
with  stolid  childish  gravity  in  the  interval  of  tearing  a 
large  sheet  of  brown  paper,  made  them  laugh.  But  in 
the  midst  of  the  laughter  thought  of  her  great  trouble 
came  upon  Esther.  Mrs.  Saunders  noticed  this,  and  a 
look  of  pity  came  into  her  eyes,  and  to  make  an  end  of 
the  unseemly  gaiety  she  took  Julia's  dog  and  told  her 
that  it  must  be  put  into  the  mould  again.  She  cut  the 
skin  away,  and  helped  to  force  the  stiff  paper  over  the 
edge  of  the  mould. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "it  is  a  dog;  both  shoulders  is 
equal,  and  if  it  was  a  real  dog  he  could  walk. " 

"Oh,  bother!"  cried  Jenny,  "I  shan't  be  able  to  fin- 
ish my  last  dozen  this  evening.  I  'ave  no  more  but- 
tons for  the  eyes,  and  the  black  pins  that  Julia  is 
a-using  of  for  her  little  one  won't  do  for  this  size. " 

"Won't  they  give  yer  any  at  the  shop?  I  was 
counting  on  the  money  they  would  bring  to  finish  the 
week  with. ' ' 

"No,  we  can't  get  no  buttons  in  the  shop:  that's 
'ome  work,  they  says;  and  even  if  they  'ad  them  they 
wouldn't  let  us  put  them  in  there.  That's  'ome  work 
they  says  to  everything ;  they  is  a  that  disagreeable  lot. 


0 

ESTHER    WATERS  ,  129 

**But  'aven't  you  got  sixpence,  mother?  and  1*11  run 

and  get  them." 

"No,  I've  run  short." 

"But,"  said  Esther,  "I'll  give  you  sixpence  to  get 
your  buttons  with. ' ' 

"Yes,  that's  it;  give  us  sixpence,  and  yer  shall  have 
it  back  to-morrow  if  you  are  'ere.  How  long  are  yer 
up  for?     If  not,  we'll  send  it." 

"I'm  not  going  back  just  yet." 

"What,  'ave  yer  lost  yer  situation?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Saunders,  "Esther  ain't  well — 
she  'as  come  up  for  'er  'ealth ;  take  the  sixpence  and 
run  along. ' ' 

"May  I  go  too?"  said  Julia.  "I've  been  at  work 
since  eight,  and  I've  only  a  few  more  dogs  to  do. " 

"Yes,  you  may  go  with  your  sister.  Run  along; 
don't  bother  me  any  more,  I've  got  to  get  your 
father's  supper. ' ' 

When  Jenny  and  Julia  had  left,  Esther  and  Mrs. 
Saunders  could  talk  freely;  the  other  children  were 
too  young  to  understand. 

"There  is  times  when  'e  is  well  enough,"  said  Mrs. 
Saunders,  "and  others  when  'e  is  that  awful.  It  is 
'ard  to  know  *ow  to  get  him,  but  'e  is  to  be  got  if  we 
only  knew  'ow.  Sometimes  'tis  most  surprising  how 
easy  'e  do  take  things,  and  at  others — well,  as  about 
that  piece  of  steak  that  I  was  a-telling  you  of.  Should 
you  catch  him  in  that  humour  'e's  as  like  as  not  to  take 
ye  by  the  shoulder  and  put  you  out ;  but  if  he  be  in 
a  good  humour  'e's  as  like  as  not  to  say,  'Well,  my 
gal,  make  yerself  at  'ome. '  " 

"He  can  but  turn  me  out.  I'll  leave  yer  to  speak  to 
'im,  mother." 


\ 


130  ESTHER    WATERS 

"I'll  do  my  best,  but  I  don't  answer  for  nothing.  A 
nice  bit  of  supper  do  make  a  difference  in  'im,  and  as 
ill  luck  will  'ave  it,  I've  nothing  but  a  rasher,  whereas 
if  I  only  'ad  a  bit  of  steak  'e'd  brighten  up  the 
moment  he  clapt  eyes  on  it  and  become  that  cheerful." 

"But,  mother,  if  you  think  it  will  make  a  difference 
I  can  easily  slip  round  to  the  butcher's  and " 

"Yes,  get  half  a  pound,  and  when  it's  nicely  cooked 
and  inside  him  it'll  make  all  the  difference.  That  will 
please  him.  But  I  don't  like  to  see  you  spending  your 
money — money  that  you'll  want  badly." 

"It  can't  be  helped,  mother.  I  shan't  be  above  a 
minute  or  two  away,  and  I'll  bring  back  a  pint  of 
porter  with  the  steak. ' ' 

Coming  back  she  met  Jenny  and  Julia,  and  when  she 
told  them  her  purchases  they  remarked  significantly 
that  they  were  now  quite  sure  of  a  pleasant  evening. 

"When  he's  done  eating  'e'll  go  out  to  smoke  his 
pipe  with  some  of  his  chaps,"  said  Jenny,  "and  we 
shall  have  the  'ouse  to  ourselves,  and  yer  can  tell  us  all 
/  about  your  situation.  They  keeps  a  butler  and  a  foot- 
man, don't  they?  They  must  be  grand  folk.  And 
what  was  the  footman  like?  Was  he  very  handsome? 
I've  'eard  that  they  all  is. " 

"And  you'll  show  us  yer  dresses,  won't  you?"  said 
Julia.  "How  many  'ave  you  got,  and  'ow  did  yer 
manage  to  save  up  enough  money  to  buy  such  beauties, 
if  they're  all  like  that?" 

"This  dress  was  given  to  me  by  Miss  Mary." 

"Was  it?  She  must  be  a  real  good  'un.  I  should 
like  to  go  to  service;  I'm  tired  of  making  dogs; -we 
have  to  work  that  'ard,  and  it  nearly  all  goes  to  the 
public ;  father  drinks  worse  than  ever. ' ' 


ESTHER     WATERS  131 

Mrs.  Saunders  approved  of  Esther's  purchase ;  it  was 
a  beautiful  bit  of  steak.  The  fire  was  raked  up,  and  a 
few  minutes  after  the  meat  was  roasting  on  the  grid- 
iron. The  clock  continued  its  coarse  ticking  amid  the 
rough  plates  on  the  dresser.  Jenny  and  Julia  hastened 
with  their  work,  pressing  the  paper  with  nervous 
fingers  into  the  moulds,  calling  sharply  to  the  little 
group  for  what  sized  paper  they  required.  Esther  and 
Mrs.  Saunders  waited,  full  of  apprehension,  for  the 
sound  of  a  heavy  tread  in  the  passage.  At  last  it 
came.  Mrs.  Saunders  turned  the  meat,  hoping  that 
its  savoury  odour  would  greet  his  nostrils  from  afar, 
and  that  he  would  come  to  them  mollified  and  amiable. 

"Hullo,  Jim;  yer  are  'ome  a  bit  earlier  to-day.  I'm 
not  quite  ready  with  yer  supper." 

"I  dunno  that  I  am.  Hullo,  Esther!  Up  for  the 
day?  Smells  damned  nice,  what  you're  cooking  for 
me,  missus.     What  is  it?" 

"Bit  of  steak,  Jim.  It  seems  a  beautiful  piece. 
Hope  it  will  eat  tender." 

"That  it  will.  I  was  afeard  you  would  have  noth- 
ing more  than  a  rasher,  and  I'm  that  'ungry. " 

Jim  Saunders  was  a  stout,  dark  man  about  forty. 
He  had  not  shaved  for  some  days,  his  face  was  black 
with  beard;  his  moustache  was  cut  into  bristle;  around 
his  short,  bull  neck  he  wore  a  ragged  comforter,  and 
his  blue  jacket  was  shabby  and  dusty,  and  the  trousers 
were  worn  at  the  heels.  He  threw  his  basket  into  a 
corner,  and  then  himself  on  the  rough  bench  nailed 
against  the  wall,  and  there,  without  speaking  another 
word,  he  lay  sniffing  the  odour  of  the  meat  like  an 
animal  going  to  be  fed.  Suddenly  a  whiff  from  the 
beer  jug  came  into  his  nostrils,  and  reaching  out  his 


132  ESTHER    WATERS 

rough  hand  he  looked  into  the  jug  to  assure  himself  he 
was  not  mistaken. 

"What's  this?"  he  exclaimed;  "a  pint  of  porter! 
Yer  are  doing  me  pretty  well  this  evening,  I  reckon. 
What's  up?" 

''Nothing,  Jim;  nothing,  dear,  but  just  as  Esther 
has  come  up  we  thought  we'd  try  to  make  yer  comfort- 
able. It  was  Esther  who  fetched  it;  she  'as  been 
doing  pretty  well,  and  can  afford  it. ' ' 

Jim  looked  at  Esther  in  a  sort  of  vague  and  brutal 
astonishment,  and  feeling  he  must  say  something,  and 
not  knowing  well  what,  he  said — 

"Well,  'ere's  to  your  good  health!"  and  he  took  a 
long  pull  at  the  jug.     "Where  did  you  get  this?" 

"In  Durham  street,  at  the  'Angel.'  " 

"I  thought  as  much;  they  don't  sell  stuff  like  this  at 
the  'Rose  and  Crown.'  Well,  much  obliged  to  yer.  I 
shall  enjoy  my  bit  of  steak  now ;  and  I  see  a  tater  in 
the  cinders:  How  are  you  getting  on,  old  woman — is 
it  nearly  done?  Yer  know  I  don't  like  all  the  goodness 
burnt  out  of  it. ' ' 

"It  isn't  quite  done  yet,  Jim;  a  few  minutes 
more " 

Jim  sniffed  in  eager  anticipation,  and  then  addressed 
himself  to  Esther. 

"Well,  they  seem  to  do  yer  pretty  well  down  there. 
My  word,  what  a  toff  yer  are!  Quite  a  lady.  .  .  . 
There's  nothing  like  service  for  a  girl ;  I've  alwayr,  said 
so.  Eh,  Jenny,  wouldn't  yer  like  to  go  into  service, 
like  yer  sister?  Looks  better,  don't  it,  than  making 
toy  dogs  at  three-and-sixpence  the  gross?" 

"I  should  just  think  it  was.  I  wish  I  could.  As 
soon  as  Maggie  can  take  my  place,  I  mean  to  try. ' ' 


ESTHER     WATERS  t33 

"It  was  the  young  lady  of  the  'ouse  that  gave  'er 
that  nice  dress,"  said  Julia.  "My  eye!  she  must  have 
been  a  favourite. ' ' 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Saunders  picked  the  steak  from 
the  gridiron,  and  putting  it  on  a  nice  hot  plate  she 
earned  it  in  her  apron  to  Jim,  saying,  "Mind  yer 
'ands,  it  is  burning  'ot. " 

Jim  fed  in  hungry  silence,  the  children  watching, 
regretting  that  none  of  them  ever  had  suppers  like 
that.  He  didn't  speak  until  he  had  put  away  the 
better  part  of  the  steak;  then,  after  taking  a  long 
pull  at  the  jug  of  beer,  he  said — 

"I  'aven't  enjoyed  a  bit  of  food  like  that  this  many  a 
day ;  I  was  that  beat  when  I  came  in,  and  it  does  do 
one  good  to  put  a  piece  of  honest  meat  into  one's 
stomach  after  a  'ard  day's  work!'' 

Then,  prompted  by  a  sudden  thought,  he  compli- 
mented Esther  on  her  looks,  and  then,  with  increasing 
interest,  inquired  what  kind  of  people  she  was  staying 
with.  But  Esther  was  in  no  humour  for  conversation, 
and  answered  his  questions  briefly  without  entering 
into  details.  Her  reserve  only  increased  his  curiosity, 
which  fired  up  at  the  first  mention  of  the  race-horses. 

' '  I  scarcely  know  much  about  them.  I  only  used  to 
see  them  passing  through  the  yard  as  they  went  to 
exercise  on  the  downs.  There  was  always  a  lot  of  talk 
about  them  in  the  servants'  hall,  but  I  didn't  notice  it. 
They  were  a  great  trouble  to  Mrs.  Barfield — I  told 
you,  mother,  that  she  was  one  of  ourselves,  didn't  I?" 

A  look  of  contempt  passed  over  Jim's  face,  and  he 
said — 

"We've  quite  enough  talk  'ere  about  the  Brethren; 
give    them    a     rest.     What    about    the    'orses?     Did 


134  ESTHER     WATERS 

they  win  any  races?  Yer  can't  *ave  missed  *earing 
that." 

"Yes,  Silver  Braid  won  the  Stewards'  Cup." 

"Silver  Braid  was  one  of  your  horses?" 

*'Yes;  Mr.  Barfield  won  thousands  and  thousands, 
everyone  in  Shoreham  won  something,  and  a  ball  for 
the  servants  was  given  in  the  Gardens. ' ' 

"And  you  never  thought  of  writing  to  me  about  it! 
I  could  have  *ad  thirty  to  one  off  Bill  Short.  One 
pound  ten  to  a  bob !  And  yer  never  thought  it  worth 
while  to  send  me  the  tip.  I'm  Mowed!  Girls  aren't 
worth  a  damn.  .  .  .  Thirty  to  one  off  Bill  Short — 
he'd  have  laid  it.  I  remember  seeing  the  price  quoted 
in  all  the  papers.  Thirty  to  one  taken  and  hoffered. 
If  you  had  told  me  all  yer  knowed  I  might  'ave  gone 
'alf  a  quid — fifteen  pun  to  'alf  a  quid!  as  much  as  I'd 
earn  in  three  months  slaving  eight  and  ten  hours  a 
day,  paint-pot  on  'and  about  them  blooming  engines. 
Well,  there's  no  use  crying  over  what's  done — sich  a 
chance  won't  come  again,  but  something  else  may. 
What  are  they  going  to  do  with  the  'orse  this  autumn 
— did  yer  'ear  that?" 

"I  think  I  'card  that  he  was  entered  for  the  Cam- 
bridgeshire, but  if  I  remember  rightly,  Mr.  Leopold — 
that's  the  butler,  not  his  real  name,  but  what  we  call 
him " 

"Ah,  yes;  I  know;  after  the  Baron.  Now  what 
do  'e  say?  I  reckon  'e  knows.  I  should  like  to  'ave 
'alf-an-hour's  talk  with  your  Mr.  Leopold.  What  do  'e 
say?  For  what  'e  says,  unless  I'm  pretty  well  mis- 
taken, is  worth  listening  to.  A  man  wouldn't  be  a- 
wasting  'is  time  in  listening  to  'im.     What  do  'e  say?" 

"Mr.  Leopold  never  says  much.     He's  the  only  one 


ESTHER    WATERS  I35 

the  Gaffer  ever  confides  in.  'Tis  said  they  are  as 
thick  as  thieves,  so  they  say.  Mr.  Leopold  was  his 
confidential  servant  when  the  Gaffer — that's  the  squire 
— was  a  bachelor. ' ' 

Jim  chuckled.  "Yes,  I  think  I  know  what  kind  of 
man  your  Mr.  Leopold  is  like.  But  what  did  'e  say 
about  the  Cambridgeshire?" 

*'He  only  laughed  a  little  once,  and  said  he  didn't 
think  the  *orse  would  do  much  good  in  the  autumn 
races — no,  not  races,  that  isn't  the  word." 

"Handicaps?" 

"Yes,  that's  it.  But  there's  no  relying  on  what 
Mr.  Leopold  says — he  never  says  what  he  really 
means.     But  I  'card  William,  that's  the  footman " 

"What  are  you  stopping  for?  What  did  yer  'ear  'im 
say?" 

' '  That  he  intends  to  have  something  on  next  spring. ' ' 

* '  Did  he  say  any  race?  Did  he  say  the  City  and  Sub.  ?" 

"Yes,  that  was  the  race  he  mentioned." 

"I  thought  that  would  be  about  the  length  and  the 
breadth  of  it, ' '  Jim  said,  as  he  took  up  his  knife  and 
fork.  There  was  only  a  small  portion  of  the  beef- 
steak left,  and  this  he  ate  gluttonously,  and,  finishing 
the  last  remaining  beer,  he  leaned  back  in  the  happi- 
ness of  repletion.  He  crammed  tobacco  into  a  dirty 
clay,  with  a  dirtier  finger-nail,  and  said — 

"I'd  be  uncommon  glad  to  'ear  how  he  is  getting  on. 
When  are  you  going  back?     Up  for  the  day  only?" 

Esther  did  not  answer,  and  Jim  looked  inquiringly 
as  he  reached  across  the  table  for  the  matches.  The 
decisive  moment  had  arrived,  and  Mrs.  Saunders 
said — 

"Esther  ain't  a-going  back;  leastways " 


136  ESTHER    WATERS 

"Not  going  back!  You  don't  mean  that  she  ain't 
contented  in  her  situation — that  she  'as " 

"Esther  ain't  going  back  no  more,"  Mrs.  Saunders 
answered,  incautiously.     "Look  ee  'ere,  Jim " 

"Out  with  it,  old  woman — no  'umbug!  What  is  it 
all  about?  Ain't  going  back  to  'er  sitooation,  and 
where  she  'as  been  treated  like  that — just  look  at  the 
duds  she  'as  got  on. ' ' 

The  evening  was  darkening  rapidly,  and  the  firelight 
flickered  over  the  back  of  the  toy  dogs  piled  up  on  the 
dresser.  Jim  had  lit  his  pipe,  and  the  acrid  and  warm 
odour  of  quickly-burning  tobacco  overpowered  the 
smell  of  grease  and  the  burnt  skin  of  the  baked  potato, 
a  fragment  of  which  remained  on  the  plate ;  only  the 
sickly  flavour  of  drying  paste  was  distinguishable  in 
the  reek  of  the  short  black  clay  which  the  man  held 
firmly  between  his  teeth.  Esther  sat  by  the  fire,  her 
hands  crossed  over  her  knees,  no  signs  of  emotion  on 
her  sullen,  plump  face.  Mrs.  Saunders  stood  on  the 
other  side  of  Esther,  between  her  and  the  younger 
children,  now  quarrelling  among  themselves,  and  her 
face  was  full  of  fear  as  she  watched  her  husband 
anxiously. 

"Now,  then,  old  woman,  blurt  it  out!"  he  said. 
"What  is  it?  Can  it  be  the  girl  'as  lost  her  sitooation 
— got  the  sack?  Yes,  I  see  that's  about  the  cut  of  it. 
Her  beastly  temper!  So  they  couldn't  put  up  with  it 
in  the  country  any  more  than  I  could  mesel'.  Well, 
it's  'er  own  look-out'  If  she  can  afford  to  chuck  up  a 
place  like  that,  so  much  the  better  for  'er.  Pity, 
though;  she  might  'ave  put  me  up  to  many  a  good 
thing." 

'It  ain't  that,  Jim.     The  girl  is  in  trouble.** 


ESTHER    WATERS  I37 

*'Wot  do  yer  say?  Esther  in  trouble?  Well,  that's 
the  best  bit  I've  heard  this  long  while.  I  always  told 
ye  that  the  religious  ones  were  just  the  same  as  the 
others — a  bit  more  hypocritical,  that's  all.  So  she  that 
wouldn't  'ave  nothing  to  do  with  such  as  was  Mrs. 
Dunbar  'as  got  'erself  into  trouble!  Well  I  never! 
But  'tis  just  what  I  always  suspected.  The  goody- 
goody  sort  are  the  worst.  So  she  'as  got  'erself  into 
trouble!     Well,  she'll  'ave  to  get  'erself  out  of  it." 

"Now,  Jim,  dear,  yer  mustn't  be  'ard  on  'er;  she 
could  tell  a  very  different  story  if  she  wished  it,  but 
yer  know  what  she  is.  There  she  sits  like  a  block  of 
marble,  and  won't  as  much  as  say  a  word  in  'er  own 
defence. ' ' 

*'But  I  don't  want  'er  to  speak.  I  don't  care,  it's 
nothing  to  me;  I  only  laughed  because " 

"Jim,  dear,  it  is  something  to  all  of  us.  What  we 
thought  was  that  you  might  let  her  stop  'ere  till  her 
time  was  come  to  go  to  the  'orspital. " 

"Ah,  that's  it,  is  it?  That  was  the  meaning  of  the 
'alf-pound  of  steak  and  the  pint  of  porter,  was  it.  I 
thought  there  was  something  hup.  So  she  wants  to 
stop  'ere,  do  she?  As  if  there  wasn't  enough  already! 
Well,  I  be  blowed  if  she  do !  A  nice  thing,  too ;  a  girl 
can't  go  away  to  service  without  coming  back  to  her 
respectable  'ome  in  trouble — in  trouble,  she  calls  it. 
Now,  I  won't  'ave  it;  there's  enough  'ere  as  it  is,  and 
another  coming,  worse  luck.  We  wants  no  bastards 
'ere.  .  .  .  And  a  nice  example,  too,  for  the  other 
children !     No,  I  won't  'ave  it ! " 

Jenny  and  Julia  looked  curiously  at  Esther,  who  sat 
quite  still,  her  face  showing  no  sign  of  emotion.  Mrs. 
Saunders  turned  towards  her,  a  pitying  look  on  her 


138  ESTHER    WATERS 

face,   saying  clearly,   "You  see,   my    poor    girl,   how 
matters  stand;  I  can  do  nothing." 

The  girl,  although  she  did  not  raise  her  eyes,  under- 
stood what  was  passing  in  her  mother's  mind,  for  there 
was  a  grave  deliberativeness  in  the  manner  in  which 
she  rose  from  the  chair. 

But  just  as  the  daughter  had  guessed  what  was  pass- 
ing in  the  mother's  mind,  so  did  the  mother  guess 
what  was  passing  in  the  daughter's.  Mrs.  Saunders 
threw  herself  before  Esther,  saying,  "Oh,  no,  Esther, 
wait  a  moment;  'e  won't  be  'ard  on  'ee. "  Then 
turning  to  her  husband,  "Yer  don't  understand,  Jim. 
It  is  only  for  a  little  time." 

"No,  I  tell  yer.  No,  I  won't  'ave  it!  There  be  too 
many  'ere  as  it  is." 

"Only  a  little  while,  Jim." 

"No.  And  those  who  ain't  wanted  'ad  better  go  at 
once — that's  my  advice  to  them.  The  place  is  as  full 
of  us  that  we  can  'ardly  turn  round  as  it  is.  No,  I 
won't  'ear  of  it!" 

"But,  Jim,  Esther  is  quite  willing  to  pay  her  way; 
she's  saved  a  good  little  sum  of  money,  and  could 
afford  to  pay  us  ten  shillings  a  week  for  board  and  the 
parlour. ' ' 

A  perplexed  look  came  on  Jim's  face. 

"Why  didn't  yer  tell  me  that  afore?  Of  course  I 
don't  wish  to  be  'ard  on  the  girl,  as  yer- 'ave  just  heard 
me  say.  Ten  shillings  a  week  for  her  board  and  the 
parlour — that  seems  fair  enough;  and  if  it's  any  con- 
venience to  'er  to  remain,  I'm  sure  we'll  be  glad  to 
'ave  'er.  I'll  say  right  glad,  too.  We  was  always  good 
friends,  Esther,  wasn't  we,  though  ye  wasn't  one  of 
my  own?"     So  saying,  Jim  held  out  his  hand. 


ESTHER     WATERS  139 

Esther  tried  to  pass  by  her  mother.  *'I  don't  want 
to  stop  where  I'm  not  wanted;  I  wants  no  one's 
charity.     Let  me  go,  mother. ' ' 

"No,  no,  Esther.  'Aven't  yer  'eard  what  'e  says? 
Ye  are  my  child  if  you  ain't  'is,  and  it  would  break  my 
'eart,  that  it  would,  to  see  you  go  away  among 
strangers.  Yer  place  is  among  yer  own  people,  who'll 
look  after  you." 

"Now,  then,  Esther,  why  should  there  be  ill  feeling. 
I  didn.'t  mean  any  'arm.  There's  a  lot  of  us  'ere,  and 
I've  to  think  of  the  interests  of  my  own.  But  for  all 
that  I  should  be  main  sorry  to  see  yer  take  yer  money 
among  strangers,  where  you  wouldn't  get  no  value  for 
it.  You'd  better  stop.  I'm  sorry  for  what  I  said. 
Ain't  that  enough  for  yer?" 

"Jim,  Jim,  dear,  don't  say  no  more;  leave  'er  to  me. 
Esther,  for  my  sake  stop  with  us.  You  are  in  trouble, 
and  it  is  right  for  you  to  stop  with  me.  Jim  'as  said 
no  more  than  the  truth.  With  all  the  best  will  in  the 
world  we  couldn't  afford  to  keep  yer  for  nothing,  but 
since  yer  can  pay  yer  way,  it  is  yer  duty  to  stop. 
Think,  Esther,  dear,  think.  Go  and  shake  'ands^^vith 
'im,  and  I'll  go  and  make  yer  up  a  bed  on  the  sofa." 

"There's  no  bloody  need  for  'er  to  shake  my  'and  if 
she  don't  like,"  Jim  replied,  and  he  pulled  doggedly 
at  his  pipe. 

Esther  tried,  but  her  fierce  and  heavy  temper  held 
her  back.  She  couldn't  go  to  her  father  for  reconcilia- 
tion, and  the  matter  might  have  ended  quite  differ- 
ently, but  suddenly,  without  another  word,  Jim  put  on 
his  hat  and  went  out  to  join  "his  chaps"  who  were 
w^aiting  for  him  about  the  public-house,  close  to  the 
cab-rank  in  the    Vauxhall    Bridge   Road.      The  door 


^4©  ESTHER    WATERS 

was  hardly  closed  behind  him  when  the  young  chil- 
dren laughed  and  ran  about  joyously,  and  Jenny  and 
Julia  went  over  to  Esther  and  begged  her  to  stop. 

"Of  course  she'll  stop,"  said  Mrs.  Saunders.  "And 
now,  Esther,  come  along  and  help  me  to  make  you  up 
a  bed  in  the  parlour. ' ' 


XIV. 

Esther  was  fast  asleep  next  morning  when  Mrs. 
Saunders  came  into  the  parlour.  Mrs.  Saunders  stood 
looking  at  her,  and  Esther  turned  suddenly  on  the  sofa 
and  said — 

"What  time  is  it,  mother?" 

*'It's  gone  six;  but  don't  you  get  up.  You're  your 
own  mistress  whilst  you're  here;  you  pays  for  what 
you  'as." 

"I  can't  afford  them  lazy  habits.  There's  plenty  of 
work  here,  and  I  must  help  you  wnth  some  of  it. " 

"Plenty  of  work  here,  that's  right  enough.  But 
why  should  you  bother,  and  you  nearly  seven  months 
gone?  I  daresay  you  feels  that  'eavy  that  you  never 
care  to  get  out  of  your  chair.  But  they  says  that  them 
who  works  up  to  the  last  'as  the  easiest  time  in  the 
end.     Not  that  I've  found  it  so. " 

The  conversation  paused.  Esther  threw  her  legs 
over  the  side  of  the  sofa,  and  still  wrapped  in  the 
blanket,  sat  looking  at  her  mother. 

"You  can't  be  over-comfortable  on  that  bit  of  sofa," 
said  Mrs.  Saimders. 

"Lor,  I  can  manage  right  enough,  if  that  was 
all." 

"You  is  that  cast  down,  Esther;  you  mustn't  give 
way.  Things  sometimes  turns  out  better  than  one 
expects." 

"You  never  found  they  did,  mother." 

141 


142  ESTHER     WATERS 

"Perhaps  I  didn't,  but  that  says  nothing  for  others. 
We  must  bear  up  as  best  we  can." 

One  word  led  to  another,  and  very  soon  Esther  was 
telling  her  mother  the  whole  tale  of  her  misfortune — 
all  about  William,  the  sweepstakes,  the  ball  at  the 
Shoreham  Gardens,  the  walks  about  the  farm  and  hill- 
side. 

"Service  is  no  place  for  a  girl  who  wants  to  live  as 
we  used  to  live  when  father  was  alive — no  service  that 
I've  seen.  I  see  that  plain  enough.  Mistress  was  one 
of  the  Brethren  like  ourselves,  and  she  had  to  put  up 
with  betting  and  drinking  and  dancing,  and  never 
thought  of  the  Lord.  There  was  no  standing  out 
against  it.  They  call  you  Creeping  Jesus  if  you  say 
your  prayers,  and  you  can't  say  them  with  a  girl 
laughing  or  singing  behind  your  back,  so  you  think 
you'll  say  them  to  yourself  in  bed,  but  sleep  comes 
sooner  than  you  expect,  and  so  you  slips  out  of  the 
habit.  Then  the  drinking.  We  was  brought  up  tee- 
total, but  they're  always  pressing  it  upon  you,  and  to 
please  him  I  said  I  would  drink  the  'orse's  'ealth. 
That's  how  it  began.  .  .  .  You  don't  know  what 
it  is,  mother;  you  only  knew  God-fearing  men  until 
you  married  him.  We  aren't  all  good  like  you, 
mother.     But  I  thought  no  harm,  indeed  I  didn't." 

"A  girl  can't  know  what  a  man  is  thinking  of,  and 
we  takes  the  worst  for  the  best." 

"I  don't  say  that  I  was  altogether  blameless, 
but—" 

"You  didn't  know  he  was  that  bad." 

Esther  hesitated. 

"I  knew  he  was  like  other  men.  But  he  told  me — 
he  promised  me  he'd  marry  me." 


ESTHER    WATERS  I43 

Mrs.  Saunders  did  not  answer,  and  Esther  said, 
"You  don't  believe  I'm  speaking  the  truth." 

*'Yes,  I  do,  dearie.  I  was  only  thinking.  You're 
my  daughter;  no  mother  had  a  better  daughter. 
There  never  was  a  better  girl  in  this  world." 

"I  was  telling  you,  mother " 

*'But  I  don't  want  no  telling  that  my  Esther  ain't  a 
bad  girl." 

Mrs.  Saunders  sat  nodding  her  head,  a  sweet, 
uncritical  mother ;  and  Esther  understood  how  unsel- 
fishly her  mother  loved  her,  and  how  simply  she 
thought  of  how  she  might  help  her  in  her  trouble. 
Neither  spoke,  and  Esther  continued  dressing. 

*'You  'aven't  told  me  what  you  think  of  your  room. 
It  looks  pretty,  don't  you  think?  I  keeps  it  as  nice  as 
I  can.  Jenny  hung  up  them  pictures.  They  livens  it 
up  a  bit,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  coloured  supple- 
ments, from  the  illustrated  papers,  on  the  wall.  "The 
china  shepherd  and  shepherdess,  you  know ;  they  was 
at  Barnstaple." 

When  Esther  was  dressed,  she  and  Mrs.  Saunders 
knelt  down  and  said  a  prayer  together.  Then  Esther 
said  she  would  make  up  her  room,  and  when  that  was 
done  she  insisted  on  helping  her  mother  with  the 
housework. 

In  the  afternoon  she  sat  with  her  sisters,  helping 
them  with  their  dogs,  folding  the  paper  into  the 
moulds,  pasting  it  down,  or  cutting  the  skins  into  the 
requisite  sizes.  About  five,  when  the  children  had 
had  their  tea,  she  and  her  mother  went  for  a  short 
walk.  Very  often  they  strolled  through  Victoria  Sta- 
tion, amused  by  the  bustle  of  the  traffic,  or  maybe 
they  wandered   down  the  Buckingham  Palace   Road, 


144  ESTHER    WATERS 

attracted  by  the  shops.  And  there  was  a  sad  pleasure 
in  these  walks.  The  elder  woman  had  borne  years  of 
exceeding  trouble,  and  felt  her  strength  failing  under 
her  burdens,  which  instead  of  lightening  were  increas- 
ing; the  younger  woman  was  full  of  nervous  appre- 
hension for  the  future  and  grief  for  the  past.  But  they 
loved  each  other  deeply.  Esther  threw  herself  in  the 
way  to  protect  her  mother,  whether  at  a  dangerous 
crossing  or  from  the  heedlessness  of  the  crowd  at  a 
corner,  and  often  a  passer-by  turned  his  head  and 
looked  after  them,  attracted  by  the  solicitude  which 
the  younger  woman  showed  for  the  elder.  In  those 
walks  very  little  was  said.  They  walked  in  silence, 
slipping  now  and  then  into  occasional  speech,  and  here 
and  there  a  casual  allusion  or  a  broken  sentence  would 
indicate  what  was  passing  in  their  minds. 

One  day  some  flannel  and  shirts  in  a  window  caught 
Mrs.  Saunders'  eye,  and  she  said — 

'*It  is  time,  Esther,  you  thought  about  your  baby 
clothes.  One  must  be  prepared;  one  never  knows  if 
one  will  go  one's  full  time." 

The  words  came  upon  Esther  with  something  of  a 
shock,  helping  her  to  realise  the  imminence  of  her 
trouble. 

"You  must  have  something  by  you,  dear;  one  never 
knows  how  it  is  going  to  turn  out ;  even  I  who  have 
been  through  it  do  feel  that  nervous.  I  looks  round 
the  kitchen  when  I'm  taken  with  the  pains,  and  I  says, 
*I  may  never  see  this  room  again.*  " 

The  words  were  said  in  an  undertone  to  Esther,  and 
the  shopwoman  turned  to  get  down  the  ready-made 
things  which  Mrs.  Saunders  had  asked  to  see. 

"Here,"  said  the  shopwoman,  "is  the  gown,  long- 


ESTHER    WATERS  145 

cloth,  one-and-sixpence;  here  is  the  flannel,  one-and- 
sixpence;  and  here  is  the  little  shirt,  sixpence/' 

'*Yoti  must  have  these  to  go  on  with,  dear,  and  if 
the  baby  lives  you'll  want  another  set." 

"Oh,  mother,  of  course  he'll  live ;  why  shouldn't  he?" 

Even  the  shopwoman  smiled,  and  Mrs.  Saunders, 
addressing  the  shopwoman,  said — 

' '  Them  that  knows  nothing  about  it  is  alius  full  of 
'ope." 

The  shopwoman  raised  her  eyes,  sighed,  and 
inquired  sympathetically  if  this  was  the  young  lady's 
first  confinement. 

Mrs.  Saunders  nodded  and  sighed,  and  then  the 
shopwoman  asked  Mrs.  Saunders  if  she  required  any 
baby  clothes.  Mrs.  Saunders  said  she  had  all  she 
required.  The  parcel  was  made  up,  and  they  were 
preparing  to  leave,  when  Esther  said — 

"I  may  as  well  buy  the  material  and  make  another 
set — it  will  give  me  something  to  do  in  the  afternoons. 
I  think  I  should  like  to  make  them." 

"We  have  some  first-rate  longcloth  at  sixpence-half- 
penny a  yard." 

"You  might  take  three  yards,  Esther;  if  anything 
should  happen  to  yer  baim  it  will  always  come  in  use- 
ful. And  you  had  better  take  three  yards  of  flannel. 
How  much  is  yer  flannel?" 

"We  have  some  excellent  flannel,"  said  the  woman, 
lifting  down  a  long,  heavy  package  in  dull  yellow 
paper;  "this  is  ten-pence  a  yard.  You  will  want  a  finer 
longcloth  for  the  little  shirts." 

And  every  afternoon  Esther  sat  in  the  parlour  by 
the  window,  seeing,  when  she  raised  her  eyes  from  the 
sewing,  the  low  brick  street  full  of  children,  and  hear- 


146  ESTHER    WATERS 

ing  the  working  women  calling  from  the  open  doors  or 
windows ;  and  as  she  worked  at  the  baby  clothes,  never 
perhaps  to  be  worn,  her  heart  sank  at  the  long  pros- 
pect that  awaited  her,  the  end  of  which  she  could  not 
see,  for  it  seemed  to  reach  to  the  very  end  of  her  life. 
In  these  hours  she  realised  in  some  measure  the 
duties  that  life  held  in  store,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that 
they  exceeded  her  strength.  Never  would  she  be  able 
to  bring  him  up — he  would  have  no  one  to  look  to  but 
her.  She  never  imagined  other  than  that  her  child 
would  be  a  boy.  The  task  was  clearly  more  than  she 
could  perform,  and  in  despair  she  thought  it  would  be 
better  for  it  to  die.  What  would  happen  if  she 
remained  out  of  a  situation?  Her  father  would  not 
have  her  at  home,  that  she  knew  well  enough.  What 
should  she  do,  and  the  life  of  another  depending  on 
her?  She  would  never  see  William  again — that  was 
certain.  He  had  married  a  lady,  and,  were  they 
to  meet,  he  would  not  look  at  her.  Her  temper 
grew  hot,  and  the  memory  of  the  injustice  of  which 
she  had  been  a  victim  pressed  upon  her.  But  when 
vain  anger  passed  away  she  thought  of  her  baby, 
anticipating  the  joy  she  would  experience  when  he 
held  out  tiny  hands  to  her,  and  that,  too,  which  she 
would  feel  when  he  laid  an  innocent  cheek  to  hers; 
and  her  dream  persisting,  she  saw  him  learning  a 
trade,  going  to  work  in  the  morning  and  coming  back 
to  her  in  the  evening,  proud  in  the  accomplishment  of 
something  done,  of  good  money  honestly  earned. 

She  thought  a  great  deal,  too,  of  her  poor  mother, 
who  was  looking  strangely  weak  and  poorly,  and  whose 
condition  was  rendered  'v^se  by  her  nervous  fears 
that  she  would  not  get  thiough  this  confinement.     For 


ESTHER    WATERS  I47 

the  doctor  had  told  Mrs.  Saunders  that  the  next  time 
it  might  go  hard  with  her ;  and  in  this  house,  her  hus- 
band  growing  more  reckless  and  drunken,  it  was  alto- 
gether a  bad  look-out,  and  she  might  die  for  want  of  a 
little  nourishment  or  a  little  care.  Unfortunately  they 
would  both  be  down  at  the  same  time,  and  it  was 
almost  impossible  that  Esther  should  be  well  in 
time  to  look  after  her  mother.  That  brute !  It  was 
wrong  to  think  of  her  father  so,  but  he  seemed  to  be 
without  mercy  for  any  of  them.  He  had  come  in  yes- 
terday half -boozed,  having  kept  back  part  of  his  money 
— he  had  come  in  tramping  and  hiccuping. 

"Now,  then,  old  girl,  out  with  it!  I  must  have  a 
few  halfpence;  my  chaps  is  waiting  for  me,  and  I 
can't  be  looking  down  their  mouths  with  nothing  in 
my  pockets." 

"I  only  have  a  few  halfpence  to  get  the  children  a 
bit  of  dinner;  if  I  give  them  to  you  they'll  have  noth- 
ing to  eat." 

"Oh,  the  children  can  eat  anything;  I  want  beer. 
If  yer  'aven't  money,  make  it." 

Mrs.  Saunders  said  that  if  he  had  any  spare  clothes 
she  would  take  them  round  the  corner.  He  only 
answered — 

"Well,  if  I  'aven't  a  spare  waistcoat  left  just  take 
some  of  yer  own  things.  I  tell  yer  I  want  beer,  and  I 
mean  to  have  some.  * ' 

Then,  with  his  fist  raised,  he  came  at  his  poor  wife, 
ordering  her  to  take  one  of  the  sheets  from  the  bed  and 
"make  money,"  and  w^ould  have  struck  her  if 
Esther  had  not  come  between  them  and,  with  her 
hand  in  her  pocket,  said,  "Be  quiet,  father;  I'll  give 
you  the  money  you  want. ' ' 


148  ESTHER     WATERS 

She  had  done  the  same  before,  and,  if  needs  be,  she 
would  do  so  again.  She  could  not  see  her  mother 
struck,  perhaps  killed  by  that  brute  ;  her  first  duty  was 
to  save  her  mother,  but  these  constant  demands  on  her 
little  savings  filled  her  with  terror.  She  would  want 
every  penny;  the  ten  shillings  he  had  already  had 
from  her  might  be  the  very  sum  required  to  put  her  on 
her  feet  again,  and  send  her  in  search  of  a  situation 
where  she  would  be  able  to  earn  money  for  the  boy. 
But  if  this  extortion  continued  she  did  not  know  what 
she  would  do,  and  that  night  she  prayed  that  God 
might  not  delay  the  birth  of  her  child. 


XV. 

**I  wish,  mother,  you  was  going  to  the  hospital  with 
me;  it  would  save  a  lot  of  expense  and  you'd  be  better 
cared  for." 

"I'd  like  to  be  with  you,  dearie,  but  I  can't  leave 
my  'ome,  all  these  young  children  about  and  no  one  to 
give  an  order.  I  must  stop  where  I  am.  But  I've 
been  intending  to  tell  you — it  is  time  that  you  was 
thinking  about  yer  letter." 

"What  letter,  mother?" 

"They  don't  take  you  without  a  letter  from  one  of 
the  subscribers.  If  I  was  you,  now  that  the  weather 
is  fine  and  you  have  strength  for  the  walk,  I'd  go  up  to 
Queen  Charlotte's.  It  is  up  the  Edgware  Road  way, 
I  think.     What  do  you  think  about  to-morrow?" 

"To-morrow's  Sunday." 

"That  makes  no  matter,  them  horspitals  is  open.** 

"I'll  go  to-morrow  when  we  have  washed  up." 

On  Friday  Esther  had  had  to  give  her  father  more 
money  for  drink.  She  gave  him  two  shillings,  and 
that  made  a  sovereign  that  he  had  had  from  her.  On 
Saturday  night  he  had  been  brought  home  helplessly 
drunk  long  after  midnight,  and  next  morning  one  of 
the  girls  had  to  fetch  him  a  drop  of  something  to  pull 
him  together.  He  had  lain  in  bed  until  dinner-time, 
swearing  he  would  brain  anyone  who  made  the  least 
noise.  Even  the  Sunday  dinner,  a  nice  beef-steak 
pudding,  hardly  tempted  him,  and  he  left  the  table 

149 


ISO  ESTHER    WATERS 

saying  that  if  he  could  find  Tom  Carter  they  would 
take  a  penny  boat  and  go  for  a  blow  on  the  river. 
The  whole  family  waited  for  his  departure.  But  he 
lingered,  talked  inconsequently,  and  several  times  Mrs. 
Saunders  and  the  children  gave  up  hope.  Esther  sat 
without  a  word.  He  called  her  a  sulky  brute,  and, 
snatching  up  his  hat,  left  the  house.  The  moment 
he  was  gone  the  children  began  to  chatter  like  birds. 
Esther  put  on  her  hat  and  jacket. 

"I'm  going,  mother." 

"Well,  take  care  of  yourself.     Good  luck  to  you. "  . 

Esther  smiled  sadly.  But  the  beautiful  weather 
melted  on  her  lips,  her  lungs  swelled  with  the  warm 
air,  and  she  noticed  the  sparrow  that  flew  across  the 
cab  rank,  and  saw  the  black  dot  pass  down  a  mews  and 
disappear  under  the  eaves.  It  was  a  warm  day  in  the 
middle  of  April;  a  mist  of  green  had  begun  in  the 
branches  of  the  elms  of  the  Green  Park;  and  in  Park 
Lane,  in  all  the  balconies  and  gardens,  wherever 
nature  could  find  roothold,  a  spray  of  gentle  green  met 
the  eye.  There  was  music,  too,  in  the  air,  the  sound 
of  fifes  and  drums,  and  all  along  the  roadway  as  far  as 
she  could  see  the  rapid  movement  of  assembling 
crowds.  A  procession  with  banners  was  turning  the 
comer  of  the  Edgware  Road,  and  the  policeman  had 
stopped  the  traffic  to  allow  it  to  pass.  The  principal 
banner  blew  out  blue  and  gold  in  the  wind,  and  the 
men  that  bore  the  poles  walked  with  strained  backs 
under  the  w^eight ;  the  music  changed,  opinions  about 
the  objects  of  the  demonstration  were  exchanged,  and 
it  was  some  time  before  Esther  could  gain  the  police- 
man's attention.  At  last  the  conductor  rang  his  bell, 
the  omnibus  started,  and  gathering  courage  she  asked 


ESTHER     WATERS  151 

the  way.  It  seemed  to  her  that  every  one  was  notic- 
ing her,  and  fearing  to  be  overheard  she  spoke  so  low 
that  the  policeman  understood  her  to  say  Charlotte 
Street.  At  that  moment  an  omnibus  drew  up  close 
beside  them. 

'Xharlotte  Street,  Charlotte  Street,"  said  the  police- 
man, "there's  Charlotte  Street,  Bloomsbury."  Before 
Esther  could  answer  he  had  turned  to  the  conductor. 
"You  don't  know  any  Charlotte  Street  about  here,  do 
you?" 

"No,  I  don't.  But  can't  yer  see  that  it  ain't  no 
Charlotte  Street  she  wants,  but  Queen  Charlotte's 
Hospital?  And  ye'd  better  lose  no  time  in  directing 
her." 

A  roar  of  coarse  laughter  greeted  this  pleasantry, 
and  burning  with  shame  she  hurried  down  the  Edg- 
ware  Road.  But  she  had  not  gone  far  before  she  had 
to  ask  again,  and  she  scanned  the  passers-by  seeking 
some  respectable  woman,  or  in  default  an  innocent 
child. 

She  came  at  last  to  an  ugly  desert  place.  There  was 
the  hospital,  square,  forbidding;  and  opposite  a  tall, 
lean  building  with  long  grey  columns.  Esther  rang, 
and  the  great  door,  some  fifteen  feet  high,  was  opened 
by  a  small  boy. 

"I  want  to  see  the  secretary." 

"Will  you  come  this  w^ay?" 

She  was  shown  into  a  waiting-room,  and  while  wait- 
ing she  looked  at  the  religious  prints  on  the  walls.  A 
lad  of  fifteen  or  sixteen  came  in.     He  said — 

"You  want  to  see  the  secretary?" 

"Yes." 

"But  I'm  afraid  you  can't  see  him;  he's  out." 


152  ESTHER    WATERS 

*'I  have  come  a  long  way;  is  there  no  one  else  I  can 
see?" 

"Yes,  you  can  see  me— I'm  his  clerk.     Have  you 
come  to  be  confined?" 

Esther  answered  that  she  had. 

"But,"  said  the  boy,  "you  are  not  in  labour;    we 
never  take  anyone  in  before." 

"I  do  not  expect  to  be  confined  for  another  month. 
I  came  to  make  arrangements." 

"You've  got  a  letter?" 

"No." 

"Then  you  must  get  a  letter  from  one  of  the  sub- 
scribers. ' ' 

"But  I  do  not  know  any.** 

"You  can  have  a  book  of  their  names  and  addresses.  ** 

"But  I  know  no  one. ' ' 

"You  needn't  know  them.  You  can  go  and  call. 
Take  those  that  live  nearest— that's  the  way  it  is 
done." 

"Then  will  you  give  me  the  book?*' 

"I'll  go  and  get  one." 

The  boy  returned  a  moment  after  with  a  small  book, 
for  which  he  demanded  a  shilling.  Since  she  had 
come  to  London  her  hand  had  never  been  out  of  her 
pocket.  She  had  her  money  with  her;  she  did  not 
dare  leave  it  at  home  on  account  of  her  father.  The 
clerk  looked  out  the  addresses  for  her  and  she  tried  to 
remember  them— two  were  in  Cumberland  Place, 
another  was  in  Bryanstone  Square.  In  Cumberland 
Place  she  was  received  by  an  elderly  lady  who  said  she 
did  not  wish  to  judge  anyone,  but  it  was  her  invari- 
able practice  to  give  letters  only  to  married  women. 
There  was  a  delicate  smell  of  perfume  in  the  room ;  the 


ESTHER    WATERS  ^3 

lady  stirred  the  fire  and  lay  back  in  her  armchair. 
Once  or  twice  Esther  tried  to  withdraw,  but  the  lady, 
although  -unswervingly  faithful  to  her  principles, 
seemed  not  indifferent  to  Esther's  story,  and  asked  her 
many  questions. 

"I  don't  see  what  interest  all  that  can  be  to  you,  as 
you  ain't  going  to  give  me  a  letter,"  Esther  answered. 

The  next  house  she  called  at  the  lady  was  not  at 
home,  but  she  was  expected  back  presently,  and  the 
maid  servant  asked  her  to  take  a  seat  in  the  hall.  But 
when  Esther  refused  information  about  her  troubles 
she  was  called  a  stuck-up  thing  who  deserved  all  she 
got,  and  was  told  there  was  no  use  her  waiting. 
At  the  next  place  she  was  received  by  a  footman  who 
insisted  on  her  communicating  her  business  to  him. 
Then  he  said  he  would  see  if  his  master  was  in.  He 
wasn't  in ;  he  must  have  just  gone  out.  The  best  time 
to  find  him  was  before  half-past  ten  in  the  morning. 

'*  He'll  be  sure  to  do  all  he  can  for  you — he  always 
do  for  the  good-looking  ones.     How  did  it  all  happen?" 

"What  business  is  that  of  yours?  I  don't  ask  your 
business." 

"Well,  you  needn't  turn  that  rusty." 

At  that  moment  the  master  entered.  He  asked 
Esther  to  come  into  his  study.  He  was  a  tall,  young- 
ish-looking man  of  three  or  four-and-thirty,  with  bright 
eyes  and  hair,  and  there  was  in  his  voice  and  manner 
a  kindness  that  impressed  Esther.  She  wished,  how- 
ever, that  she  had  seen  his  mother  instead  of  him,  for 
she  was  more  than  ever  ashamed  of  her  condition.  He 
seemed  genuinely  sorry  for  her,  and  regretted  that  he 
had  given  all  his  tickets  away.  Then  a  thought  struck 
him,  and  he  wrote  a  letter  to  one  of  his  friends,  a 


154  ESTHER    WATERS 

banker  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  This  gentleman,  he 
said,  was  a  large  subscriber  to  the  hospital,  and  would 
certainly  give  her  the  letter  she  required.  He  hoped 
that  Esther  would  get  through  her  trouble  all  right. 

The  visit  brought  a  little    comfort  into   the  girl's 
heart;    and  thinking  of    his    kind    eyes    she    walked 
slowly,  inquiring  out  her  way  until  she  got  back  to  the 
Marble  Arch,  and  stood  looking  down  the  long  Bays- 
water  Road.     The  lamps  were  beginning  in  the  light, 
and  the  tall  houses  towered  above  the  sunset.     Esther 
,  watched  the  spectral  city,   and  some  sensation  of  the 
1  poetry  of  the  hour  must  have  stolen  into  her  heart,  for 
she   turned    into    the   Park,   choosing  to  walk  there. 
Upon  its  dim  green  grey  the  scattered  crowds  were 
like  strips  of  black  tape.     Here  and  there  by  the  rail- 
I  ings  the  tape  had  been  wound  up  in  a  black  ball,  and 
the  peg  was  some  democratic  orator,  promising  poor 
human    nature    unconditional    deliverance   from  evil. 
Further  on  were  heard  sounds  from  a  harmonium,  and 
,  hymns  were  being  sung,   and  in  each   doubting  face 
j  there  was  something  of  the  perplexing,  haunting  look 
!  which  the  city  wore. 

;  A  chill  wind  was  blowing.  Winter  had  returned 
'  with  the  night,  but  the  instinct  of  spring  continued  in 
the  branches.  The  deep,  sweet  scent  of  the  hyacinth 
floated  along  the  railings,  and  the  lovers  that  sat  with 
their  arms  about  each  other  on  every  seat  were  of 
Esther's  own  class.  She  would  have  liked  to  have 
called  them  round  her  and  told  them  her  miserable 
story,  so  that  they  might  profit  by  her  experience. 


XVI. 

No  more  than  three  weeks  now  remained  between 
her  and  the  dreaded  day.  She  had  hoped  to  spend 
them  with  her  mother,  who  was  timorous  and  despond- 
ing, and  stood  in  need  of  consolation.  But  this  was 
not  to  be;  her  father's  drunkenness  continued,  and 
daily  he  became  more  extortionate  in  his  demands  for 
money.  Esther  had  not  six  pounds  left,  and  she  felt 
that  she  must  leave.  It  had  come  to  this,  that  she 
doubted  if  she  were  to  stay  on  that  the  clothes  on  her 
back  might  not  be  taken  from  her.  Mrs.  Saunders 
was  of  the  same  opinion,  and  she  urged  Esther  to  go. 
But  scruples  restrained  her. 

"I  can't  bring  myself  to  leave  you,  mother;  some- 
thing tells  me  I  should  stay  with  you.  It  is  dreadful 
to  be  parted  from  you.  I  wish  you  was  coming  to  the 
hospital;  you'd  be  far  safer  there  than  at  home." 

"I  know  that,  dearie;  but  where 's  the  good  in  talk- 
ing about  it?  It  only  makes  it  harder  to  bear.  You 
know  I  can't  leave.  It  is  terrible  hard,  as  you  says." 
:Mrs.  Saunders  held  her  apron  to  her  eyes  and  cried. 
"You  have  always  been  a  good  girl,  never  a  better — 
my  one  consolation  since  your  poor  father  died. 

"Don't  cry,  mother,"  said  Esther;  "the  Lord  will 
watch  over  us,  and  we  shall  both  pray  for  each  other. 
In  about  a  month,  dear,  we  shall  be  both  quite  well, 
and  you'll  bless  my  baby,  and  I  shall  think  of  the  time 
when  I  shall  put  him  into  your  arms. ' ' 

155 


156  ESTHER    WATERS 

"I  hope  so,  Esther;  I  hope  so,  but  I  am  full  of  fears. 
I'm  sore  afraid  that  we  shall  never  see  one  another 
again — leastways  on  this  earth." 

"Oh,  mother,  dear,  yer  mustn't  talk  like  that;  you'll 
break  my  heart,  that  you  will." 

The  cab  that  took  Esther  to  her  lodging  cost  half- 
a-crown,  and  this  waste  of  money  frightened  her  thrifty 
nature,  inherited  through  centuries  of  working  folk. 
The  waste,  however,  had  ceased  at  last,  and  it  was 
none  too  soon,  she  thought,  as  she  sat  in  the  room  she 
had  taken  near  the  hospital,  in  a  little  eight-roomed 
house,  kept  by  an  old  woman  whose  son  was  a  brick- 
layer. 

It  was  at  the  end  of  the  week,  one  afternoon,  as 
Esther  was  sitting  alone  in  her  room,  that  there  came 
within  her  a  great  and  sudden  shock — life  seemed  to 
be  slipping  from  her,  and  she  sat  for  some  minutes 
quite  unable  to  move.  She  knew  that  her  time  had 
come,  and  when  the  pain  ceased  she  went  downstairs 
to  consult  Mrs.  Jones. 

"Hadn't  I  better  go  to  the  hospital  now,  Mrs. 
Jones?" 

"Not  just  yet,  my  dear;  them  is  but  the  first  labour 
pains;  plenty  of  time  to  think  of  the  hospital;  we 
shall  see  how  you  are  in  a  couple  of  hours." 

"Will  it  last  so  long  as  that?" 

"You'll  be  lucky  if  you  get  it  over  before  midnight. 
I  have  been  down  for  longer  than  that." 

"Do  you  mind  my  stopping  in  the  kitchen  with  you? 
I  feel  frightened  when  I'm  alone." 

"No,  I'll  be  glad  of  your  company.  I'll  get  you 
9ome  tea  presently." 

"I  could  not  touch  anything.     Oh,  this  is  dreadful!" 


ESTHER     WATERS  I57 

she  exclaimed,  and  she  walked  to  and  fro  holding  her 
sides,  balancing  herself  dolefully.  Often  Mrs.  Jones 
stopped  in  her  work  about  the  range  and  said,  looking 
at  her,  "I  know  what  it  is,  I  have  been  through  it 
many  a  time— we  all  must— it  is  our  earthly  lot.^M^'p^^ 
About  seven  o'clock  Esther  was  clinging  to  the  table, ^-  — 
and  with  pain  so  vivid  on  her  face  that  Mrs.  Jones  laid 
aside  the  sausages  she  was  cooking  and  approached  the 
suffering  girl. 

"What!  is  it  so  bad  as  all  that?" 

*'Oh,"  she  said,  "I  think  I'm  dying,  I  cannot  stand 
up ;  give  me  a  chair,  give  me  a  chair ! ' '  and  she  sank 
down  upon  it,  leaning  across  the  table,  her  face  and 
neck  bathed  in  a  cold  sweat. 

"John  will  have  to  get  his  supper  himself;  I'll  leave 
these  sausages  on  the  hob,  and  run  upstairs  and  put  on 
my  bonnet.  The  things  you  intend  to  bring  with  you, 
the  baby  clothes,  are  made  up  in  a  bundle,  aren't 
they?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

Little  Mrs .  Jones  came  running  down ;  she  threw  a 
shawl  over  Esther,  and  it  was  astonishing  what  sup- 
port she  lent  to  the  suffering  girl,  calling  on  her  the 
whole  time  to  lean  on  her  and  not  to  be  afraid.  "Now 
then,  dear,  you  must  keep  your  heart  up,  we  have  only 
a  few  yards  further  to  go." 

"You  are  too  good,  you  are  too  kind,"  Esther  said, 
and  she  leaned  against  the  wall,  and  Mrs.  Jones  rang 
the  bell. 

"Keep  up  your  spirits;  to-morrow  it  will  be  all  over. 
I  will  come  round  and  see  how  you  are." 

The  door  opened.  The  porter  rang  the  bell,  and  a 
sister  came  running  down. 


158  ESTHER     WATERS 

"Come,  come,  take  my  arm,"  she  said,  "and 
breathe  hard  as  you  are  ascending  the  stairs.  Come 
along,  you  mustn't  loiter." 

On  the  second  landing  a  door  was  thrown  open,  and 
she  found  herself  in  a  room  full  of  people,  eight  or 
nine  young  men  and  women. 

"What!  in  there?  and  all  those  people?"  said  Esther. 

"Of  course;  those  are  the  midwives  and  the  stu- 
dents." 

She  saw  that  the  screams  she  had  heard  in  the  pass- 
age came  from  a  bed  on  the  left-hand  side.  A  woman 
lay  there  huddled  up.  In  the  midst  of  her  terror 
Esther  was  taken  behind  a  screen  by  the  sister  who  had 
brought  her  upstairs  and  quickly  undressed.  She  was 
clothed  in  a  chemise  a  great  deal  too  big  for  her,  and 
a  jacket  which  was  also  many  sizes  too  large.  She 
remembered  hearing  the  sister  say  so  at  the  time.  Both 
windows  were  wide  open,  and  as  she  walked  across 
the  room  she  noticed  the  basins  on  the  floor,  the  lamp 
on  the  round  table,  and  the  glint  of  steel  instruments. 

The  students  and  the  nurses  were  behind  her;  she 
knew  they  were  eating  sweets,  for  she  heard  a  young 
man  ask  the  young  women  if  they  would  have  any 
more  fondants.  Their  chatter  and  laughter  jarred  on 
her  nerves;  but  at  that  moment  her  pains  began  again, 
and  she  saw  the  young  man  whom  she  had  seen  hand- 
ing the  sweets  approaching  her  bedside. 

"Oh,  no,  not  him,  not  him!"  she  cried  to  the  nurse. 
"Not  him,  not  him!  he  is  too  young!  Do  not  let  him 
come  near  me!" 

They  laughed  loudly,  and  she  buried  her  head  in  the 
pillow,  overcome  with  pain  and  shame;  and  when  she 
felt  him  by  her  she  tried  to  rise  from  the  bed. 


ESTHER    WATERS  i59 

''Let  me  go!  take  me  away!  Oh,  you  are  all 
beasts!" 

"Come,  come,  no  nonsense!"  said  the  nurse;  "you 
can't  have  what  you  like;  they  are  here  to  learn;"  and 
when  he  had  tried  the  pains  she  heard  the  midwife 
say  that  it  wasn't  necessary  to  send  for  the  doctor.     ^ 
Another  said  that  it  would  be  all  over  in  about  three  "^Z, .v*- 
hours'   time.      "An  easy  confinement,    I  should  say.  ^    ^ 
The  other  will  be  more  interesting.     .     .     ."     Then 
they  talked  of  the  plays  they  had  seen,  and  those  they 
wished    to    see.      A    discussion    arose  regarding   the 
merits  of  a  shilling  novel  which  every  one  was  reading, 
and  then  Esther  heard  a  stampede  of  nurses,  midwives, 
and  students  in  the  direction  of  the  window.     A  Ger- 
man band  had  come  into  the  street. 

"Is  that  the  way  to  leave  your  patient,  sister?"  said 
the  student  who  sat  by  Esther's  bed,  a  good-looking 
boy  with  a  fair,  plump  face.  Esther  looked  into  his 
clear  blue,  girl-like  eyes,  wondered,  and  turned  away 
for  shame. 

The  sister  stopped  her  imitation  of  a  popular  come- 
dian, and  said,  "Oh,  she's  all  right;  if  they  were  all 
like  her  there'd  be  very  little  use  our  coming  here." 

"Unfortunately  that's  just  what  they  are,"  said 
another  student,  a  stout  fellow  with  a  pointed  red 
beard,  the  ends  of  which  caught  the  light.  Esther's 
eyes  often  went  to  those  stubble  ends,  and  she  hated 
him  for  his  loud  voice  and  jocularity.  One  of  the 
midwives,  a  woman  with  a  long  nose  and  small  grey 
eyes,  seemed  to  mock  her,  and  Esther  hoped  that  this 
woman  would  not  come  near  her.  She  felt  that  she 
could  not  bear  her  touch.  There  was  something 
sinister  in  her  face,  and  Esther  was  glad  when  her 


i6o  ESTHER    WATERS 

favourite,  a  little  blonde  woman  with  wavy  flaxen  hair, 
came  and  asked  her  if  she  felt  better.  She  looked  a 
little  like  the  young  student  who  still  sat  by  her  bed- 
side, and  Esther  wondered  if  they  were  brother  and 
sister,  and  then  she  thought  that  they  were  sweet- 
hearts. 

Soon  after  a  bell  rang,  and  the  students  went  down 
to  supper,  the  nurse  in  charge  promising  to  warn  them 
if  any  change  should  take  place.  The  last  pains  had 
so  thoroughly  exhausted  her  that  she  had  fallen  into  a 
doze.  But  she  could  hear  the  chatter  of  the  nurses  so 
clearly  that  she  did  not  believe  herself  asleep.  And 
in  this  film  of  sleep  reality  was  distorted,  and  the 
unsuccessful  operation  which  the  nurses  were  discuss- 
ing Esther  understood  to  be  a  conspiracy  against  her 
life.  She  awoke,  listened,  and  gradually  sense  of  the 
truth  returned  to  her.  She  was  in  the  hospital. 
.  ,  .  The  nurses  were  talking  of  some  one  who  had 
died  last  week.  .  .  .  That  poor  woman  in  the 
other  bed  seemed  to  suffer  dreadfully.  Would  she  live 
through  it?  Would  she  herself  live  to  see  the  morn- 
ing? How  long  the  time,  how  fearful  the  place!  If 
the  nurses  would  only  stop  talking.  .  .  .  The 
pains  would  soon  begin  again.  ...  It  was  awful 
to  lie  listening,  waiting.  The  windows  were  open,  and 
the  mocking  gaiety  of  the  street  was  borne  in  on  the 
night  wind.  Then  there  came  a  trampling  of  feet  and 
sound  of  voices  in  the  passage — the  students  and 
nurses  were  coming  up  from  supper;  and  at  the  same 
moment  the  pains  began  to  creep  up  from  her  knees. 
One  of  the  young  men  said  that  her  time  had  not 
come.  The  woman  with  the  sinister  look  that  Esther 
dreaded,   held  a   contrary  opinion,      The    point    was 


ESTHER    WATERS  i6l 

arg-ued,  and,  interested  in  the  question,  the  crowd 
came  from  the  window  and  collected  round  the  dis- 
putants. The  young  man  expounded  much  medical 
and  anatomical  knowledge;  the  nurses  listened  with 
the  usual  deference  of  women.    ayyj'<yi.  r n^ut^ 

Suddenly  the  discussion  was  interrupted  by  a  scream 
from  Esther ;  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  being  torn 
asunder,  that  life  was  going  from  her.  The  nurse  ran 
to  her  side,  a  look  of  triumph  came  upon  her  face,  and 
she  said,  "Now  we  shall  see  who's  right,"  and  forth- 
with ran  for  the  doctor.  He  came  running  up  the 
stairs ;  immediately  silence  and  scientific  collectedness 
gathered  round  Esther,  and  after  a  brief  examination 
he  said,  in  a  low  whisper — 

"I'm  afraid  this  will  not  be  as  easy  a  case  as  one 
might  have  imagined.     I  shall  administer  chloroform. ' ' 

He  placed  a  small  wire  case  over  her  mouth  and 
nose,  and  the  sickly  odour  which  she  breathed  from 
the  cotton  wool  filled  her  brain  with  nausea ;  it  seemed 
to  choke  her,  and  then  life  faded,  and  at  every  inhala- 
tion she  expected  to  lose  sight  of  the  circle  of  faces. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  the  doctors  and  nurses 
were  still  standing  round  her,  but  there  was  no  longer 
any  expression  of  eager  interest  on  their  faces.  She 
wondered  at  this  change,  and  then  out  of  the  silence 
there  came  a  tiny  cry. 

"What's  that?"  Esther  asked. 

"That's  your  baby." 

"My  baby!     Let  me  see  it;  is  it  a  boy  or  a  girl?" 

"It  is  a  boy;  it  will  be  given  to  you  when  we  get  you 
out  of  the  labour  ward." 

"I  knew  it  would  be  a  boy."     Then  a  scream  of 


i62  ESTHER    WATERS 

pain  rent  the  stillness  of  the  room.  "Is  that  the  same 
woman  who  was  here  when  I  first  came  in?  Hasn't 
she  been  confined  yet?" 

"No,  and  I  don't  think  she  will  be  till  midday;  she's 
very  bad." 

The  door  was  thrown  open,  and  Esther  was  wheeled 
into  the  passage.  She  was  like  a  convalescent  plant 
trying  to  lift  its  leaves  to  the  strengthening  light,  but 
within  this  twilight  of  nature  the  thought  of  another 
life,  now  in  the  world,  grew  momentarily  more  distinct. 
"Where  is  my  boy?"  she  said;  "give  him  to  me." 

The  nurse  entered,  and  answered,  "Here."  A 
pulp  of  red  flesh  rolled  up  in  flannel  was  laid  along- 
side of  her.  Its  eyes  were  open ;  it  looked  at  her,  and 
her  flesh  filled  with  a  sense  of  happiness  so  deep 
and  so  intense  that  she  was  like  one  enchanted.  When 
she  took  the  child  in  her  arms  she  thought  she  must 
die  of  happiness.  She  did  not  hear  the  nurse  speak, 
nor  did  she  understand  her  when  she  took  the  babe 
from  her  arms  and  laid  it  alongside  on  the  pillow,  say- 
ing, "You  must  let  the  little  thing  sleep,  you  must  try 
to  sleep  yourself. ' ' 

Her  personal  self  seemed  entirely  withdrawn;  she 
existed  like  an  atmosphere  about  the  babe,  an  imper- 
sonal emanation  of  love.  She  lay  absorbed  in  this  life 
of  her  life,  this  flesh  of  her  flesh,  unconscious  of  her- 
self as  a  sponge  in  warm  sea-water.  She  touched  this 
pulp  of  life,  and  was  thrilled,  and  once  more  her 
senses  swooned  with  love;  it  was  still  there.  She  re- 
membered that  the  nurse  had  said  it  was  a  boy.  She 
must  see  her  boy,  and  her  hands,  working  as  in  a 
dream,  unwound  him,  and,  delirious  with  love,  she 
gazed  until  he  awoke  and  cried.     She  tried  to  hush 


ESTHER    WATERS  163 

him  and  to  enfold  him,  but  her  strength  failed,  she 
could  not  help  him,  and  fear  came  lest  he  should  die. 
She  strove  to  reach  her  hands  to  him,  but  all  strength 
had  gone  from  her,  and  his  cries  sounded  hollow  in 
her  weak  brain.     Then  the  nurse  came  and  said — 

"See  what  you  have  done,  the  poor  child  is  all 
uncovered ;  no  wonder  he  is  crying.  I  will  wrap  him 
up,  and  you  must  not  interfere  with  him  again. ' '  But 
as  soon  as'the  nurse  turned  away  Esther  had  her  child 
back  in  her  arms.  She  did  not  sleep.  She  could  not 
sleep  for  thinking  of  him,  and  the  long  night  passed  in 
adoration. 


XVII. 

She  was  happy,  her  babe  lay  beside  her.  All  her 
joints  were  loosened,  and  the  long  hospital  days  passed 
in  gentle  weariness.  Lady  visitors  came  and  asked 
questions.  Esther  said  that  her  father  and  mother 
lived  in  the  Vauxhall  Bridge  Road,  and  she  admitted 
that  she  had  saved  four  pounds.  There  were  two  beds 
in  this  ward,  and  the  woman  who  occupied  the  second 
bed  declared  herself  to  be  destitute,  without  home,  or 
money,  or  friends.  She  secured  all  sympathy  and 
promises  of  help,  and  Esther  was  looked  upon  as  a 
person  who  did  not  need  assistance  and  ought  to  have 
known  better.  They  received  visits  from  a  clergy- 
man. He  spoke  to  Esther  of  God's  goodness  and  wis- 
dom, but  his  exhortations  seemed  a  little  remote,  and 
Esther  was  sad  and  ashamed  that  she  was  not  more 
deeply  stirred.  Had  it  been  her  own  people  who  came 
and  knelt  about  her  bed,  lifting  their  voices  in  the 
plain  prayers  she  was  accustomed  to,  it  might  have 
been  different;  but  this  well-to-do  clergyman,  with  his 
sophisticated  speech,  seemed  foreign  to  her,  and  failed 
to  draw  her  thoughts  from  the  sleeping  child. 

The  ninth  day  passed,  but  Esther  recovered  slowly, 
and  it  was  decided  that  she  should  not  leave  the  hos- 
pital before  the  end  of  the  third  week.  She  knew  that 
when  she  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  hospital  there 
would  be  no  more  peace  for  her;  and  she  was  fright- 
ened as  she  listened  to  the  never-ending  rumble  of  the 

164 


ESTHER     WATERS  165 

street.  She  spent  whole  hours  thinking  of  her  dear 
mother,  and  longing  for  some  news  from  home,  and 
her  face  brightened  when  she  was  told  that  her  sister 
had  come  to  see  her. 

"Jenny,  what  has  happened;  is  mother  very  bad?" 

*' Mother  is  dead,  that's  what  I've  come  to  tell  you; 
I'd  have  come  before,  but " 

"Mother  dead:  Oh,  no,  Jenny!  Oh,  Jenny,  not  my 
poor  mother!" 

"Yes,  Esther.  I  knew  it  would  cut  you  up  dreadful ; 
we  was  all  very  sorry,  but  she's  dead.  .  She's  dead  a 
long  time  now,  I  was  just  a-going  to  tell  you " 

"Jenny,  what  do  you  mean?     Dead  a  long  time?" 

"Well,  she  was  buried  more  than  a  week  ago.  We 
were  so  sorry  you  couldn't  be  at  the  funeral.  We 
was  all  there,  and  had  crape  on  our  dresses  and  father 
had  crape  on  his  'at.  We  all  cried,  especially  in 
church  and  about  the  grave,  and  when  the  sexton 
threw  in  the  soil  it  sounded  that  hollow  it  made  me 
sob.  Julia,  she  lost  her  'ead  and  asked  to  be  buried 
with  mother,  and  I  had  to  lead  her  away ;  and  then  we 
went  'ome  to  dinner." 

"Oh,  Jenny,  our  poor  mother  gone  from  us  for  ever! 
How  did  she  die?  Tell  me,  was  it  a  peaceful  death? 
Did  she  suffer?" 

"There  ain't  much  to  tell.  Mother  was  taken  bad 
almost  immediately  after  you  was  with  us  the  last 
time.  Mother  was  that  bad  all  the  day  long  and  all 
night  too  w^e  could  'ardly  stop  in  the  'ouse ;  it  gave  one 
just  the  creeps  to  listen  to  her  crying  and  moan 
ing." 

"And  then?" 

*'Why,  then  the  baby  was  bom.     It  was  dead,  and 


i66  ESTHER    WATERS 

mother  died  of  weakness ;  prostration  the  doctor  called 
it." 

Esther  hid  her  face  in  the  pillow.  Jenny  waited, 
and  an  anxious  look  of  self  began  to  appear  on  the 
vulgar  London  street  face. 

"Look  'ere,  Esther,  you  can  cry  when  I've  gone; 
I've  a  deal  to  say  to  yer  and  time  is  short." 

"Oh,  Jenny,  don't  speak  like  that!  Father,  was  he 
kind  to  mother?" 

"I  dunno  that  he  thought  much  about  it;  he  spent 
'alf  'is  time  in  the  public,  'e  did.  He  said  he  couldn't 
abide  the  'ouse  with  a  woman  a-screaming  like  that. 
One  of  the  neighbours  came  in  to  look  after  mother, 
and  at  last  she  had  the  doctor. ' '  Esther  looked  at  her 
sister  through  streaming  tears,  and  the  woman  in  the 
other  bed  alluded  to  the  folly  of  poor  women  being 
confined  "in  their  own  'omes — in  a  'ome  where  there 
is  a  drunken  'usband,  and  most  'omes  is  like  that  now- 
adays. ' ' 

At  that  moment  Esther's  baby  awoke  crying  for  the 
breast.  The  little  lips  caught  at  the  nipple,  the  wee 
hand  pressed  the  white  curve,  and  in  a  moment 
Esther's  face  took  that  expression  of  holy  solicitude 
which  Raphael  sublimated  in  the  Virgin's  downward- 
gazing  eyes.  Jenny  watched  the  gluttonous  lips, 
interested  in  the  spectacle,  and  yet  absorbed  in  what 
she  had  come  to  say  to  her  sister. 

"Your  baby  do  look  'ealthy. " 

"Yes,  and  he  is  too,  not  an  ache  or  a  pain.  He's  as 
beautiful  a  boy  as  ever  lived.  But  think  of  poor 
mother,  Jenny,  think  of  poor  mother." 

"I  do  think  of  her,  Esther.  But  I  can't  help  seeing 
your  baby.     He's  like  you,  Esther.     I  can  see  a  look 


ESTHER     WATERS  167 

of  you  in  'is  eyes.  But  I  don't  know  that  I  should  care 
to  'ave  a  baby  meself — the  expense  comes  very  'eavy 
on  a  poor  girl." 

"Please  God,  my  baby  shall  never  want  for  anything 
as  long  as  I  can  work  for  him.  But,  Jenny,  my  trouble 
will  be  a  lesson  to  you.  I  hope  you  will  always  be  a 
good  girl,  and  never  [allow  yourself  to  be  led  away ; 
you  promise  me?" 

"Yes,  I  promise." 

"A  'ome  like  ours,  a  drunken  father,  and  now  that 
poor  mother  is  gone  it  will  be  worse  than  ever. 
Jenny,  you  are  the  eldest  and  must  do  your  best  to 
look  after  the  younger  ones,  and  as  much  as  possible 
to  keep  father  from  the  public-house.  I  shall  be 
away;  the  moment  I'm  well  enough  I  must  lookout 
for  a  place. ' ' 

"That's  just  what  I  came  to  speak  to  you  about. 
Father  is  going  to  Australia.  He  is  that  tired  of  Eng- 
land, and  as  he  lost  his  situation  on  the  railway  he  has 
made  up  his  mind  to  emigrate.  It  is  pretty  well  all 
arranged;  he  has  been  to  an  agency  and  they  say  he'll 
'ave  to  pay  two  pounds  a  'ead,  and  that  runs  to  a  lot  of 
money  in  a  big  family  like  ours.  So  I'm  likely  to  get 
left,  for  father  says  that  I'r^  old  enough  to  look  after 
myself.  He's  willing  to  take  me  if  I  gets  the  money, 
not  without.     That's  what  I  came  to  tell  yer  about." 

Esther  understood  that  Jenny  had  come  to  ask  for 
money.  She  could  not  give  it,  and  lapsed  int9  think- 
ing of  this  sudden  loss  of  all  her  family.  She  did  not 
know  where  Australia  was ;  she  fancied  that  she  had 
once  heard  that  it  took  months  to  get  there.  But  she 
knew  that  they  were  all  going  from  her,  they  were 
going  out  on  the  sea  in  a  great  ship  that  would  sail 


i68  ESTHER    WATERS 

and  sail  further  and  further  away.  She  could  see  the 
ship  from  her  bedside,  at  first  strangely  distinct,  alive 
with  hands  and  handkerchiefs ;  she  could  distinguish  all 
the  children — Jenny,  Julia,  and  little  Ethel.  She  lost 
sight  of  their  faces  as  the  ship  cleared  the  harbour. 
Soon  after  the  ship  was  far  away  on  the  great  round  of 
waters,  again  a  little  while  and  all  the  streaming  can- 
vas not  larger  than  a  gull's  wing,  again  a  little  while 
and  the  last  speck  on  the  horizon  hesitated  and  disap- 
peared. 

"What  are  you  crying  about,  Esther?  I  never  saw 
yer  cry  before.     It  do  seem  that  odd. " 

* '  r m  so  weak.  Mother ' s  death  has  broken  my  heart, 
and  now  to  know  that  I  shall  never  see  any  one  of  you 
again." 

"It  do  seem  'ard.  We  shall  miss  you  sadly.  But  I 
was  going  to  say  that  father  can't  take  me  unless  I 
finds  two  pounds.  You  won't  see  me  stranded,  will 
you,  Esther?" 

"I  cannot  give  you  the  money,  Jenny.  Father  has 
had  too  much  of  my  money  already;  there's  'ardly 
enough  to  see  me  through.  I've  only  four  pounds  left. 
I  cannot  give  you  my  child's  money;  God  knows  how 
we  shall  live  until  I  can  get  to  work  again." 

"You're  nearly  well  now.  But  if  yer  can't  help  me, 
yer  can't.  I  don't  know  what's  to  be  done.  Father 
can't  take  me  if  I  don't  find  the  money." 

"You  say  the  agency  wants  two  pounds  for  each  per- 
son?" 

"Yes,  that's  it." 

"And  I've  four.  We  might  both  go  if  it  weren't  for 
the  baby  ,but  I  don't  suppose  they'd  make  any  charge 
for  a  child  on  the  breast. " 


ESTHER    WATERS  169 

"I  dunno.     There's  father;  yer  know  what  he  is." 

''That's  true.  He  don't  want  me;  I'm  not  one  of 
his.  But,  Jenny,  dear,  it  is  terrible  to  be  left  all  alone. 
Poor  mother  dead,  and  all  of  you  going  to  Australia. 
I  shall  never  see  one  of  you  again. ' ' 

The  conversation  paused.  Esther  changed  the  baby 
from  the  left  to  the  right  breast,  and  Jenny  tried  to 
think  what  she  had  best  say  to  induce  her  sister  to 
give  her  the  money  she  wanted. 

"If  you  don't  give  me  the  money  I  shall  be  left;  it 
is  hard  luck,  that's  all,  for  there's  fine  chances  for  a 
girl,  they  says,  out  in  Australia.  If  I  remain  'ere  I 
dunno  what  will  become  of  me." 

' '  You  had  better  look  out  for  a  situation.  We  shall 
see  each  other  from  time  to  time.  It's  a  pity  you 
don't  know  a  bit  of  cooking,  enough  to  take  the  place 
of  kitchen-maid." 

"I  only  know  that  dog-making,  and  I've  'ad  enough 
of  that." 

' '  You  can  always  get  a  situation  as  general  servant 
in  a  lodging- 'ouse." 

"Service  in  a  lodging- 'ouse!  Not  me.  You  know 
what  that  is.     I'm  surprised  that  you'd  ask  me." 

"Well,  what  are  yer  thinking  of  doing?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  going  on  in  the  pantomime  as  one 
of  the  hextra  ladies,  if  they'll  'ave  me." 

"Oh,  Jenny,  you  won't  do  that,  will  you?  A 
theatre  is  only  sinfulness,  as  we  'ave  always  knowed." 

"You  know  that  I  don't  'old  with  all  them  preachy- 
preachy  brethren  says  about  the  theatre." 

"I  can't  argue — I  'aven't  the  strength,  and  it  inter-  \ 
feres  with  the  milk."     And  then,  as  if  prompted  by 
some  association  of  ideas,  Esther  said,  "I  hope,  Jenny, 


lyo  ESTHER     WATERS 

that  you'll  take  example  by  me  and  will  do  nothing 
foolish;  you'll  always  be  a  good  girl." 
\)J    "Yes,  if  I  gets  the  chance," 

'*rm  sorry  to  'ear  you  speak  like  that,  and  pooi 
mother  only  just  dead." 

The  words  that  rose  to  Jenny's  lips  were:  "A  nice 
one  you  are,  with  a  baby  at  your  breast,  to  come 
a-lecturing  me,"  but,  fearing  Esther's  temper,  she 
checked  the  dangerous  words  and  said  instead — 

**I  didn't  mean  that  I  was  a-going  on  the  streets 
right  away  this  very  evening,  only  that  a  girl  left  alone 
in  London  without  anyone  to  look  to  may  go  wrong  in 
spite  of  herself,  as  it  were." 

''A  girl  never  need  go  wrong;  if  she  does  it  is  always 
'er  own  fault."  Esther  spoke  mechanically,  but  sud- 
denly remembering  her  own  circumstances  she  said : 
"I'd  give  you  the  money  if  I  dared,  but  for  the  child's 
sake  I  mustn't." 

"You  can  afford  it  well  enough — I  wouldn't  ask  you 
if  you  couldn't.  You'll  be  earning  a  pound  a  week 
presently. ' ' 

"A  pound  a  week!     What  do  you  mean,  Jenny?" 

*'Yer  can  get  that  as  wet-nurse,  and  yer  food  too." 

"How  do  yer  know  that,  Jenny?" 

"A  friend  of  mine  who  was  'ere  last  year  told  me 
she  got  it,  and  you  can  get  it  too  if  yer  likes.  Fancy 
a  pound  for  the  next  six  months,  and  everything 
found.  Yer  might  spare  me  the  money  and  let  me  go 
to  Australia  with  the  others. ' ' 

"I'd  give  yer  the  money  if  what  you  said  was  true." 

"Yer  can  easily  find  out  what  I  say  is  the  truth  by 
sending  for  the  matron.  Shall  I  go  and  fetch  her?  I 
won't  be  a  minute j  you'U  see  what  she  says." 


ESTHER     WATERS  171 

A  few  moments  after  Jenny  returned  with  a  good- 
looking,  middle-aged  woman.  On  her  face  there  was 
that  testy  and  perplexed  look  that  comes  of  much 
business  and  many  interruptions.  Before  she  had 
opened  her  lips  her  face  had  said:  "Come,  what  is  it? 
Be  quick  about  it." 

"Father  and  the  others  is  going  to  Australia. 
Mother's  dead  and  was  buried  last  week,  so  father  says 
there's  nothing  to  keep  'im  'ere,  for  there  is  better 
prospects  out  there.  But  he  says  he  can't  take  me,  for 
the  agency  wants  two  pounds  a  'ead,  and  it  was  all  he 
could  do  to  find  the  money  for  the  others.  He  is  just 
short  of  two  pounds,  and  as  I'm  the  eldest  barring 
Esther,  who  is  'is  step-daughter,  'e  says  that  I  had 
better  remain,  that  I'm  old  enough  to  get  my  own  liv- 
ing, which  is  very  'ard  on  a  girl,  for  I'm  only  just 
turned  sixteen.  So  I  thought  that  I  would  come  up 
'ere  and  tell  my  sister " 

"But,  my  good  girl,  what  has  all  this  got  to  do  with 
me?  I  can't  give  you  two  pounds  to  go  to  Australia. 
You  are  only  wasting  my  time  for  nothing, ' ' 

"  'Ear  me  out,  missis.  I  want  you  to  explain  to  my 
sister  that  you  can  get  her  a  situation  as  a  wet-nurse  at 
a  pound  a  week — that's  the  usual  money  they  gets,  so 
I  told  her,  but  she  won't  believe  me;  but  if  you  tells 
her,  she'll  give  me  two  pounds  and  I  shall  be  able  to 
go  with  father  to  Australia,  where  they  says  there  is 
fine  chances  for  a  girl. " 

The  matron  examined  in  critical  disdain  the 
vague  skirt,  the  broken  boots,  and  the  misshapen 
hat,  coming  all  the  while  to  rapid  conclusions  regard- 
ing the  moral  value  of  this  unabashed  child  of  the 
gutter. 


172  ESTHER    WATERS 

"I  think  your  sister  will  be  very  foolish  if  she  gives 
you  her  money." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,  missis,  don't." 

"How  does  she  know  that  your  story  is  true?  Per- 
haps you  are  not  going  to  Australia  at  all. " 

"Perhaps  I'm  not — that's  just  what  I'm  afraid  of; 
but  father  is,  and  I  can  prove  it  to  you.  I've  brought 
a  letter  from  father— 'ere  it  is;  now,  is  that  good 
enough  for  yer?" 

"Come,  no  impertinence,  or  I'll  order  you  out 
of  the  hospital  in  double  quick  time,"  said  the 
matron. 

"I  didn't  intend  no  impertinence,"  said  Jenny 
humbly,  "only  I  didn't  like  to  be  told  I  was  telling  lies 
when  I  was  speaking  the  truth." 

"Well,  I  see  that  your  father  is  going  to  Australia," 
the  matron  replied,  returning  the  letter  to  Jenny; 
"you  want  your  sister  to  give  you  her  money  to  take 
you  there  too. ' ' 

"What  I  wants  is  for  you  to  tell  my  sister  that  you 
can  get  her  a  situation  as  wet-nurse;  then  perhaps 
she'll  give  me  the  money." 

"If  your  sister  wants  to  go  out  as  wet-nurse,  I  dare- 
say I  could  get  her  a  pound  a  week." 

"But,"  said  Esther,  "I  should  have  to  put  baby  out 
at  nurse." 

"You'll  have  to  do  that  in  any  case,"  Jenny  inter- 
posed; "you  can't  live  for  nine  months  on  your  savings 
and  have  all  the  nourishing  food  that  you'll  want  to 
keep  your  milk  going." 

"If  I  was  yer  sister  I'd  see  yer  further  before  I'd 
give  yer  my  money.  You  must  'ave  a  cheek  to  come 
a-asking  for  it,  to  go  off  to  Australia  where  a  girl  'as 


ESTHER     WATERS  173 

chances,  and  yer  sister  with  a  child  at  the  breast  left 
behind.     Well  I  never!" 

Jenny  and  the  matron  turned  suddenly  and  looked  at 
the  woman  in  the  opposite  bed  who  had  so  unex- 
pectedly expressed  her  views.     Jenny  was  furious. 

"What  odds  is  it  to  you?"  she  screamed;  "what 
business  is  it  of  yours,  coming  poking  your  nose  in  my 
affairs?" 

"Come,  now,  I  can't  have  any  rowing,"  exclaimed 
the  matron. 

' '  Rowing !  I  should  like  to  know  what  business  it  is 
of 'ers." 

"Hush,  hush,  I  can't  have  you  interfering  with  my 
patients;  another  word  and  I'll  order  you  out  of  the 
hospital. ' ' 

"Horder  me  out  of  the  horspital!  and  what  for? 
Who  began  it?  No,  missis,  be  fair;  wait  until  my  sis- 
ter gives  her  answer. ' ' 

"Well,  then,  she  must  be  quick  about  it — I  can't 
wait  about  here  all  day. ' ' 

"I'll  give  my  sister  the  money  to  take  her  to  Aus- 
tralia if  you  say  you  can  get  me  a  situation  as  wet- 
nurse." 

"Yes,  I  think  I  can  do  that.  It  was  four  pounds  five 
that  you  gave  me  to  keep.  I  remember  the  amount, 
for  since  I've  been  here  no  one  has  come  with  half 
that.  If  they  have  five  shillings  they  think  they  can 
buy  half  London. ' ' 

"My  sister  is  very  careful,"  said  Jenny,  senten- 
tiously.     The  matron  looked  sharply  at  her  and  said — 

"Now  come  along  with  me — I'm  going  to  fetch  your 
sister's  money.  I  can't  leave  you  here — you'd  get 
quarrelling  with  my  patients. '  * 


174  ESTHER    WATERS 

**No,  missis,  indeed  I  won't  say  nothing  to  her.** 

**Do  as  I  tell  you.     Come  along  with  me." 

So  with  a  passing  scowl  Jenny  expressed  her  con- 
tempt for  the  woman  who  had  come  '*a-interfering  in 
'er  business,"  and  went  after  the  matron,  watching  her 
every  movement.  When  they  came  back  Jenny's  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  matron's  fat  hand  as  if  she  could  see 
the  yellow  metal  through  the  fingers. 

**Here  is  your  money,"  said  the  matron;  "four 
pounds  five.     You  can  give  your  sister  what  you  like. ' ' 

Esther  held  the  four  sovereigns  and  the  two  half- 
crowns  in  her  hand  for  a  moment,  then  she  said — 

"Here,  Jenny,  are  the  two  pounds  you  want  to  take 
you  to  Australia.  I  'ope  they'll  bring  you  good  luck, 
and  that  you'll  think  of  me  sometimes." 

"Indeed  I  will,  Esther.  You've  been  a  good  sister 
to  me,  indeed  you  'ave;  I  shall  never  forget  you,  and 
will  write  to  you.     .     .     .     It  is  very  'ard  parting.^" 

"Come,  come,  never  mind  those  tears.  You  have 
got  your  money ;  say  good-bye  to  your  sister  and  run 
along. '  * 

"Don't  be  so  'eartless,"  cried  Jenny,  whose  sus- 
ceptibilities were  now  on  the  move.  "  'Ave  yer  no 
feeling;  don't  yer  know  what  it  is  to  bid  good-bye  to 
yer  sister,  and  perhaps  for  ever?"  Jenny  flung  her- 
self into  Esther's  arms  crying  bitterly.  "Oh,  Esther, 
I  do  love  you;  yer  'ave  been  that  kind  to  me  I  shall 
never  forget  it.  I  shall  be  very  lonely  without  you. 
Write  to  me  sometimes;  it  will  be  a  comfort  to  hear 
how  you  are  getting  on.  If  I  marry  I'll  send  for  you, 
and  you'll  bring  the  baby," 

"Do  you  think  I'd  leave  him  behind?  Kiss  *im 
before  you  go.  ** 


ESTHER    WATERS  i75 

.  *' Good-bye,  Esther;  take  care  of  yourself 

Esther  was  now  alone  in  the  world,  and  she  remem- 
bered the  night  she  walked  home  from  the  hos- 
pital and  how  cruel  the  city  had  seemed.  She  was 
now  alone  in  that  great  wilderness  with  her  child,  for 
whom  she  would  have  to  work  for  many,  many  years. 
How  would  it  all  end?  Would  she  be  able  to  live 
through  it?  Had  she  done  right  in  letting  Jenny  have 
the  money — her  boy's  money?  She  should  not  have 
given  it ;  but  she  hardly  knew  what  she  was  doing,  she 
was  so  weak,  and  the'  news  of  her  mother's  death  had 
overcome  her.  She  should  not  have  given  Jenny  her 
boy's  money.  .  .  .  But  perhaps  it  might  turn  out 
all  right  after  all.  If  the  matron  got  her  a  situation  as 
wet-nurse  she'd  be  able  to  pull  through.  "So  they 
would  separa'te  us,"  she  whispered,  bending  over  the 
sleeping  child.  "There  is  no  help  for  it,  my  poor 
darling.     There's  no  help  for  it,  no  help  for  it." 

Next  day  Esther  was  taken  out  of  bed.  She  spent 
part  of  the  afternoon  sitting  in  an  easy-chair,  and  Mrs. 
Jones  came  to  see  her.  The  little  old  woman  seemed 
like  one  whom  she  had  known  always,  and  Esther  told 
her  about  her  mother's  death  and  the  departure  of  her 
family  for  Australia.  Perhaps  a  week  lay  between  her 
and  the  beginning  of  the  struggle  which  she  dreaded. 
She  had  been  toM  that  they  did  not  usually  keep  any- 
one in  the  hospital  more  than  a  fortnight.  Three  days 
after  Mrs.  Jones'  visit  the  matron  came  into  their  room 
hurriedly. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  she  said,  "but  a  number  of  new 
patients  are  expected;  there's  nothing  for  it  but  to  get 
rid  of  you.  It  is  a  pity,  for  I  can  see  you  are  both 
very  weak.'* 


176  ESTHER    WATERS 

*'What,  me  too?"  said  the  woman  in  the  other  bed. 
"I  can  hardly  stand;  I  tried  just  now  to  get  across 
the  room." 

"I'm  very  sorry,  but  we've  new  patients  coming, 
and  there's  all  our  spring  cleaning.  Have  you  any 
place  to  go  to?" 

"No  place  except  a  lodging,"  said  Esther;  *'and  I 
have  only  two  pounds  five  now. '  * 

"What's  the  use  in  taking  us  at  all  if  you  fling  us  out 
on  the  street  when  we  can  hardly  walk?"  said  the  other 
woman.  ' '  I  wish  I  had  gone  and  drowned  myself.  I 
was  very  near  doing  it.  If  I  had  it  would  be  all 
over  now  for  me  and  the  poor  baby. ' ' 

"I'm  used  to  all  this  ingratitude,"  said  the  matron. 
"You  have  got  through  your  confinement  very  com- 
fortably, and  your  baby  is  quite  healthy ;  I  hope  you'll 
try  and  keep  it  so.     Have  you  any  money?" 

"Only  four-and- sixpence. " 

"Have  you  got  any  friends  to  whom  you  can  go?** 

"No." 

"Then  you'll  have  to  apply  for  admission  to  the 
workhouse. ' ' 

The  woman  made  no  answer,  and  at  that  moment 
two  sisters  came  and  forcibly  began  to  dress  her.  She 
fell  back  from  time  to  time  in  their  arms,  almost 
fainting. 

"Lord,  what  a  job!"  said  one  sister;  "she's  just  like 
so  much  lead  in  one's  arms.  But  if  we  listened  to 
them  we  should  have  them  loafing  here  over  a  month 
more."  Esther  did  not  require  much  assistance,  and 
the  sister  said,  "Oh,  you  are  as  strong  as  they  make 
'em;  you  might  have  gone  two  days  ago." 

"You're  no  better  than  brutes,"  Esther  muttered. 


'    ESTHER    WATERS  I77 

Then,  turning  to  the  matron,  she  said,  "You  promised 
to  get  me  a  situation  as  wet-nurse." 

"Yes,  so  I  did,  but  the  lady  who  I  intended  to 
recommend  you  to  wrote  this  morning  to  say  that  she 
had  suited  herself." 

"But  do  you  think  you  could  get  me  a  situation  as 
wet-nurse?"  said  the  other  w^oman;  "it  would  save  me 
from  going  to  the  workhouse. ' ' 

"I  really  don't  know  what  to  do  with  you  all;  you 
all  want  to  stop  in  the  hospital  at  least  a  month,  eating 
and  drinking  the  best  of  everything,  and  then  you 
want  situations  as  wet-nurses  at  a  pound  a  week." 

"But,"  said  Esther,  indignantly,  "I  never  should 
have  given  my  sister  two  pounds  if  you  had  not  told 
me  you  could  get  me  the  situation. ' ' 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  the  matron,  "to  have  to  send  you 
away.  I  .should  like  to  have  kept  you,  but  really  there 
is  no  help  for  it.  As  for  the  situation,  I'll  do  the  best 
I  can.  It  is  true  that  place  I  intended  for  you  is  filled 
up,  but  there  w411  be  another  shortly,  and  you  shall 
have  the  first.  Give  me  your  address.  I  shall  not 
keep  you  long  waiting,  you  can  depend  upon  me.  You 
are  still  very  weak,  I  can  see  that.  Would  you  like  to 
have  one  of  the  nurses  to  walk  round  with  you?  You 
had  better— you  might  fall  and  hurt  the  baby.  My 
word,  he  is  a  fine  boy. ' ' 

"Yes,  he  is  a  beautiful  boy;  it  will  break  my  heart 
to  part  with  him." 

Some  eight  or  nine  poor  girls  stood  outside,  dressed 
alike  in  dingy  garments.  They  were  like  half-dead 
flies  trying  to  crawl  through  an  October  afternoon; 
and  with  their  babies  and  a  keen  wind  blowing,  they 
found  it  difiScult  to  hold  on  their  hats. 


178  ESTHER    WATERS 

*'It  do  catch  you  a  bit  rough,  coining  out  of  them 
'ot  rooms,"  said  a  woman  standing  by  her.  "I'm  that 
weak  I  can  'ardly  carry  my  baby.  I  dunno  'ow  I  shall 
get  as  far  as  the  Edgware  Road.  I  take  my  'bus 
there.     Are  you  going  that  way?" 

**No,  I'm  going  close  by,  round  the  comer,** 


XVIII. 

^  Her  hair  hung  about  her,  her  hands  and  wrists  were 
shrunken,  her  flesh  was  soft  and  flabby,  and  she  had 
dark  shadows  in  her  face.  Nursing  her  child  seemed 
to  draw  all  strength  from  her,  and  her  nervous  depres- 
sion increased ;  she  was  too  weary  and  ill  to  think  of 
the  future,  and  for  a  whole  week  her  physical  condition 
held  her,  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other  thought. 
Mrs.  Jones  was  very  kind,  and  only  charged  her  ten 
shillings  a  week  for  her  board  and  lodging,  but  this 
was  a  great  deal  when  only  two  pounds  five  shillings 
remained  between  her  and  the  workhouse,  and  this 
fact  was  brought  home  to  her  when  Mrs.  Jones  came 
to  her  for  the  first  week's  money.  Ten  shillings  gone; 
only  one  pound  fifteen  shillings  left,  and  still  she  was 
so  weak  that  she  could  hardly  get  up  and  down  stairs. 
But  if  she  were  twice  as  weak,  if  she  had  to  crawl 
along  the  street  on  her  hands  and  knees,  she  must  go 
to  the  hospital  and  implore  the  matron  to  get  her  a 
situation  as  wet-nurse.  It  was  raining  heavily,  and 
Mrs.  Jones  said  it  was  madness  for  her  to  go  out  in 
such  weather,  but  go  she  must ;  and  though  it  was  dis- 
tant only  a  few  hundred  yards,  she  often  thought  she 
would  like  to  lie  down  and  die.  And  at  the  hospital 
only  disappointment.  Why  hadn't  she  called  yester- 
day? Yesterday  two  ladies  of  title  had  come  and  taken 
two  girls  away.  Such  a  chance  might  not  occur  for 
some  time.     ' ' For  some  time, ' '  thought  Esther ;  "very 

179 


l8o  ESTHER    WATERS 

soon  I  shall  have  to  apply  for  admission  at  the  work- 
house." She  reminded  the  matron  of  her  promise, 
and  returned  home  more  dead  than  alive.  Mrs.  Jones 
helped  her  to  change  her  clothes,  and  bade  her  be  of 
good  heart.  Esther  looked  at  her  hopelessly,  and  sit- 
ting down  on  the  edge  of  her  bed  she  put  the  baby  to 
her  breast. 

Another  week  passed.  She  had  been  to  the  hospital 
every  day,  but  no  one  had  been  to  inquire  for  a  wet- 
nurse.  Her  money  was  reduced  to  a  few  shillings,  and 
she  tried  to  reconcile  herself  to  the  idea  that  she  might 
do  worse  than  to  accept  the  harsh  shelter  of  the  work- 
house. Her  nature  revolted  against  it;  but  she  must 
do  what  was  best  for  the  child.  She  often  asked  her- 
self how  it  would  all  end,  and  the  more  she  thought, 
the  more  terrible  did  the  future  seem.  Her  miserable 
meditations  were  interrupted  by  a  footstep  on  the 
stairs.  It  was  Mrs.  Jones,  coming  to  tell  her  that  a 
lady  who  wanted  a  wet-nurse  had  come  from  the  hos- 
pital ;  and  a  lady  entered  dressed  in  a  beautiful  brown 
silk,  and  looked  around  the  humble  room,  clearly 
shocked  at  its  poverty.  Esther,  who  was  sitting  on 
the  bed,  rose  to  meet  the  fine  lady,  a  thin  woman, 
with  narrow  temples,  aquiline  features,  bright  eyes, 
and  a  disagreeable  voice. 

"You  are  the  young  person  who  wants  a  situation  as 
wet-nurse?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Are  you  married?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Is  that  your  first  child?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Ah!  that's  a  pity.     But  it  doesn't  matter  much,  s<? 


ESTHER    WATERS  i8i 

long  as  you  and  your  baby  are  healthy.  Will  you  show 
it  to  me?" 

"He  is  asleep  now,  ma'am,"  Esther  said,  raising  the 
bed-clothes;  "there  never  was  a  healthier  child." 

"Yes,  he  seems  healthy  enough.  You  have  a  good 
supply  of  milk?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Fifteen  shillings,  and  all  found.  Does  that  suit 
you?" 

"I  had  expected  a  pound  a  week. " 

"It  is  only  your  first  baby.  Fifteen  shillings  is  quite 
enough.  Of  course  I  only  engage  you  subject  to  the 
doctor's  approval.     I'll  ask  him  to  call." 

"Very  well,  ma'am;  I  shall  be  glad  of  the  place." 

"Then  it  is  settled.     You  can  come  at  once?" 

"I  must  arrange  to  put  my  baby  out  to  nurse, 
ma'am." 

The  lady's  face  clouded.  But  following  up  another 
train  of  thought,  she  said — 

"Of  course  you  must  arrange  about  your  baby,  and  I 
hope  you'll  make  proper  arrangements.  Tell  the 
woman  in  whose  charge  you  leave  it  that  I  shall  want 
to  see  it  every  three  weeks.  It  will  be  better  so,"  she 
added  under  her  breath,  "for  two  have  died  already." 

"This  is  my  card,"  said  the  lady— "Mrs.  Rivers, 
Curzon  Street,  Mayfair — and  I  shall  expect  you 
to-morrow  afternoon — that  is  to  say,  if  the  doctor 
approves  of  you.  Here  is  one-and-sixpence  for  your 
cab  fare." 

"Thank  you,  ma'am." 

"I  shall  expect  you  not  later  than  four  o'clock.  I 
hope  you  won't  disappoint  me ;  remember  my  child  is 
waiting. ' ' 


i82  ESTHER    WATERS 

When  Mrs.  Rivers  left,  Esther  consulted  with  Mrs. 
Jones.  The  difficulty  was  now  where  she  should  put 
the  child  out  at  nurse.  It  was  now  just  after  two 
o'clock.  The  baby  was  fast  asleep,  and  would  want 
nothing  for  three  or  four  hours.  It  would  be  well  for 
Esther  to  put  on  her  hat  and  jacket  and  go  off  at  once. 
Mrs.  Jones  gave  her  the  address  of  a  respectable 
woman  who  used  to  take  charge  of  children.  But  this 
woman  was  nursing  twins,  and  could  not  possibly 
undertake  the  charge  of  another  baby.  And  Esther 
visited  many  streets,  always  failing  for  one  reason  or 
another.  At  last  she  found  herself  in  Wandsworth,  in 
a  battered-tumble-down  little  street,  no  thoroughfare, 
only  four  houses  and  a  coal-shed.  Broken  wooden 
palings  stood  in  front  of  the  small  area  into  which 
descent  was  made  by  means  of  a  few  wooden  steps. 
The  wall  opposite  seemed  to  be  the  back  of  some 
stables,  and  in  the  area  of  No.  3  three  little  mites 
were  playing.  The  baby  was  tied  in  a  chair,  and  a 
short  fat  woman  came  out  of  the  kitchen  at  Esther's 
call,  her  dirty  apron  sloping  over  her  high  stomach, 
and  her  pale  brown  hair  twisted  into  a  knot  at  the  top 
of  her  head. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"I  came  about  putting  a  child  out  to  nurse.  You 
are  Mrs.  Spires,  ain't  yer?" 

*'Yes,  that's  my  name.     May  I  ask  who  sent  you?" 

Esther  told  her,  and  then  Mrs.  Spires  asked  her  to 
step  down  into  the  kitchen. 

"Them  'ere  children  you  saw  in  the  area  I  looks 
after  while  their  mothers  are  out  washing  or  char- 
ing. They  takes  them  'ome  in  the  evening.  I  only 
charges    them   four-pence  a-day,   and   it   is  a  loss  at 


ESTHER     WATERS  183 

that,  for  they  does  take  a  lot  of  minding.  What  age 
is  yours  ? ' ' 

"Mine  is  only  a  month  old.  I've  a  chance  to  go  out 
as  wet-nurse  if  I  can  find  a  place  to  put  him  out  at 
nurse.     Will  you  look  after  my  baby?" 

"How  much  do  you  think  of  paying  for  him?" 

"Five  shillings  a  week." 

"And  you  a-going  out  as  wet-nurse  at  a  pound  a 
week;  you  can  afford  more  than  that." 

"I'm  only  getting  fifteen  shillings  a  week." 

"Well,  you  can  afford  to  pay  six.  I  tell  you  the 
responsibility  of  looking  after  a  hinfant  is  that  awful 
nowadays  that  I  don't  care  to  undertake  it  for  less." 

Esther  hesitated ;  she  did  not  like  this  woman. 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  woman,  altering  her  tone  to 
one  of  mild  interrogation,  "you  would  like  your  baby 
to  have  the  best  of  ever3'thing,  and  not  the  drainings 
of  any  bottle  that's  handy?" 

"I  should  like  my  child  to  be  well  looked  after,  and 
I  must  see  the  child  every  three  weeks. ' ' 

"Do  you  expect  me  to  bring  up  the  child  to 
wherever  the  lady  lives,  and  pay  my  'bus  fare,  all  out 
of  five  shillings  a  week?  It  can't  be  donel"  Esther 
did  not  answer.  "You  ain't  married,  of  course?" 
Mrs.  Spires  said  suddenly. 

"Xo,  I  aint;  w^hat  about  that?" 

"Oh,  nothing;  there  is  so  many  of  you,  that's  all. 
You  can't  lay  yer  'and  on  the  father  and  get  a  bit  out 
of  'im?" 

The  conversation  paused.  Esther  felt  strangely 
undecided.  She  looked  round  suspiciously,  and  notic- 
ing the  look  the  woman  said — 

"Your  baby  will  be  well  looked  after  'ere;   a  nice 


i84  ESTHER    WATERS 

warm  kitchen,  and  I've  no  other  babies  for  the 
moment;  them  children  don't  give  no  trouble,  they 
plays  in  the  area.  You  had  better  let  me  have  the 
child;  you  won't  do  better  than  'ere." 

Esther  promised  to  think  it  over  and  let  her  know 
to-morrow.  It  took  her  many  omnibuses  to  get  home, 
and  it  was  quite  dark  when  she  pushed  the  door  to. 
The  first  thing  that  caught  her  ear  was  her  child  cry- 
ing. "What  is  the  matter?"  she  cried,  hurrying  down 
the  passage. 

"Oh,  is  that  you?  You  have  been  away  a  time. 
The  poor  child  is  that  hungry  he  has  been  crying  this 
j  hour  or  more.  If  I'd  'ad  a  bottle  I'd  'ave  given  him  a 
little  milk." 

"Hungry,  is  he?  Then  he  shall  have  plenty  soon. 
It  is  nearly  the  last  time  I  shall  nurse  the  poor 
darling. "  Then  she  told  Mrs.  Jones  about  Mrs.  Spires, 
and  both  women  tried  to  arrive  at  a  decision. 

"Since  you  have  to  put  the  child  out  to  nurse,  you 
might  as  well  put  him  there  as  elsewhere ;  the  woman 
will  look  after  him  as  well  as  she  can — she'll  do  that, 
if  it  is  for  the  sake  of  the  six  shillings  a  week." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know;  but  I've  always  heard  that  chil- 
dren die  that  are  put  out  to  nurse.  If  mine  died  I 
never  should  forgive  myself." 

She  could  not  sleep;  she  lay  with  her  arms  about 
her  baby,  distracted  at  the  thought  of  parting  from 
him.  What  had  she  done  that  her  baby  should  be 
,  separated  from  her?  What  had  the  poor  Httle  darling 
I  done?  He  at  least  was  innocent;  why  should  he  be 
deprived  of  his  mother?  At  midnight  she  got  up  and 
lighted  a  candle,  looked  at  him,  took  him  in  her  arms, 
squeezed   him  to    her  bosom    till  he    cried,   and  the 


ESTHER     WATERS  185 

thought  came  that  it  would  be  sweeter  to  kill  him  with  I 
her  own  hands  than  to  be  parted  from  him.  --^^ 

The  thought  of  murder  went  with  the  night,  and  she 
enjoyed  the  journey  to  Wandsworth.  Her  baby 
laughed  and  cooed,  and  was  much  admired  in  the 
omnibus,  and  the  little  street  where  Mrs.  Spires  hved 
seemed  different.  A  cart  of  hay  was  being  unloaded, 
and  this  gave  the  place  a  pleasant  rural  air.  Mrs. 
Spires,  too,  was  cleaner,  tidier;  Esther  no  longer  dis- 
liked her ;  she  had  a  nice  little  cot  ready  for  the  baby, 
and  he  seemed  so  comfortable  in  it  that  Esther  did  not 
feel  the  pangs  at  parting  which  she  had  expected  to 
feel.  She  would  see  him  in  a  few  weeks,  and  in  those 
weeks  she  would  be  richer.  It  seemed  quite  wonder- 
ful to  earn  so  much  money  in  so  short  a  time.  She 
had  had  a  great  deal  of  bad  luck,  but  her  luck  seemed 
to  have  turned  at  last.  So  engrossed  was  she  in  the 
consideration  of  her  good  fortune  that  she  nearly  for- 
got to  get  out  of  her  'bus  at  Charing  Cross,  and  had  it 
not  been  for  the  attention  of  the  conductor  might  have 
gone  on,  she  did  not  know  where — perhaps  to  Clerken- 
well,  or  may  be  to  Islington.  When  the  second  'bus 
turned  into  Oxford  Street  she  got  out,  not  wishing  to 
spend  more  money  than  was  necessary.  Mrs.  Jones  ap- 
proved of  all  she  had  done,  helped  her  to  pack  up  her 
box,  and  sent  her  away  with  many  kind  wishes  to 
Curzon  Street  in  a  cab. 

Esther  was  full  of  the  adventure  and  the  golden 
prospect  before  her.  She  wondered  if  the  house  she 
was  going  to  was  as  grand  as  Woodview,  and  she  was 
struck  by  the  appearance  of  the  maid-servant  who 
opened  the  door  to  her. 

"Oh,   here  you  are,"    Mrs.    Rivers  said.      "I   have 


i86  ESTHER    WATERS 

been  anxiously  expecting  you ;  my  baby  is  not  at  all 
well.  Come  up  to  the  nursery  at  once.  I  don't  know 
your  name,"  she  said,  turning  to  Esther. 

"Waters,  ma'am." 

"Emily,  you'll  see  that  Waters*  box  is  taken  to  her 
room.  * ' 

"I'll  see  to  it,  ma'am." 

"Then  come  up  at  once,  Waters.  I  hope  you'll  suc- 
ceed better  than  the  others. '  * 

A  tall,  handsome  gentleman  stood  at  the  door  of  a 
room  full  of  beautiful  things,  and  as  they  went  past 
him  Mrs.  Rivers  said,  "This  is  the  new  nurse,  dear." 
Higher  up,  Esther  saw  a  bedroom  of  soft  hangings  and 
bright  porcelain.  Then  another  staircase,  and  the  little 
wail  of  a  child  caught  on  the  ear,  and  Mrs.  Rivers  said, 
"The  poor  little  thing;  it  never  ceases  crying.  Take 
it,  Waters,  take  it." 

Esther  sat  down,  and  soon  the  little  thing  ceased 
crying. 

"It  seems  to  take  to  you,"  said  the  anxious  mother. 

"So  it  seems,"  said  Esther;  "it  is  a  wee  thing,  not 
half  the  size  of  my  boy." 

"I  hope  the  milk  will  suit  it,  and  that  it  won't  bring 
up  what  it  takes.     This  is  our  last  chance. ' ' 

"I  daresay  it  will  come  round,  ma'am.  I  suppose 
you  weren't  strong  enough  to  nurse  it  yourself,  and 
yet  you  looks  healthy. ' ' 

"I?  No,  I  could  not  undertake  to  nurse  it."  Then, 
glancing  suspiciously  at  Esther,  whose  breast  was  like 
a  little  cup,  Mrs.  Rivers  said,  "I  hope  you  have  plenty 
of  milk?" 

"Oh,  yes,  ma'am;  they  said  at  the  hospital  I  could 
bring  up  twins." 


ESTHER     WATERS  187 

"Your  supper  will  be  ready  at  nine.  But  that  will 
be  a  long  time  for  you  to  wait.  I  told  them  to  cut  you 
some  sandwiches,  and  you'll  have  a  glass  of  porter. 
Or  perhaps  you'd  prefer  to  wait  till  supper?  You 
can  have  your  supper,  you  know,  at  eight,  if  you 
like?" 

Esther  took  a  sandwich  and  Mrs.  Rivers  poured  out 
a  glass  of  porter.  And  later  in  the  evening  Mrs. 
Rivers  came  down  from  her  drawing-room  to  see  that 
Esther's  supper  was  all  right,  and  not  satisfied  with  the 
handsome  fare  that  had  been  laid  before  her  child's 
nurse,  she  went  into  the  kitchen  and  gave  strict  orders 
that  the  meat  for  the  future  was  not  to  be  quite  so 
much  cooked. 

Henceforth  it  seemed  to  Esther  that  she  was  eating 
all  day.  The  food  was  doubtless  necessary  after  the 
great  trial  of  the  flesh  she  had  been  through,  likewise 
pleasant  after  her  long  abstinences.  She  grew  happy 
in  the  tide  of  new  blood  flowing  in  her  veins,  and 
might  easily  have  abandoned  herself  in  the  seduction 
of  these  carnal  influences.  But  her  moral  nature  was 
of  tough  fibre,  and  made  mute  revolt.  Such  constant 
^mealing  did  not  seem  natural,  and  the  obtuse  brain  of 
this  lowly  servant-girl  was  perplexed.  Her  self- 
res~pect  was  wounded;  she  hated  her  position  in  this 
house,  and  sought  consolation  in  the  thought  that  she 
was  earning  good  money  for  her  baby.  She  noticed, 
too,  that  she  never  was  allowed  out  alone,  and  that  her 
walks  were  limited  to  just  sufficient  exercise  to  keep 
her  in  health. 

A  fortnight  passed,  and  one  afternoon,  after  having 
put  baby  to  sleep,  she  said  to  Mrs.  Rivers,  "I  hope, 
ma'am,  you'll  be  able  to  spare  me  for  a  couple  of 


i88  ESTHER    WATERS 

hours;  baby  won't  want  me  before  then.  I'm  very- 
anxious  about  my  little  one. ' ' 

"Oh,  nurse,  I  couldn't  possibly  hear  of  it;  such  a 
thing  is  never  allowed.  You  can  write  to  the  woman, 
if  you  like." 

"I  do  not  know  how  to  write,  ma'am." 

"Then  you  can  get  some  one  to  write  for  you.  But 
your  baby  is  no  doubt  all  right." 

"But,  ma'am,  you  are  uneasy  about  your  baby;  you 
are  up  in  the  nursery  twenty  times  a  day ;  it  is  only 
natural  I  should  be  uneasy  about  mine. " 

"But,  nurse,  I've  no  one  to  send  with  you." 

"There  is  no  reason  why  any  one  should  go  with 
me,  ma'am ;  I  can  take  care  of  myself. ' ' 

"What!  let  you  go  off  all  the  way  to — where  did  you 
say  you  had  left  it — Wandsworth? — by  yourself!  I 
really  couldn't  think  of  it.  I  don't  want  to  be  unneces- 
sarily hard — but  I  really  couldn't — no  mother  could. 
I  must  consider  the  interests  of  my  child.  But  I 
don't  want  you  to  agitate  )^ourself,  and  if  you  like 
I'll  write  myself  to  the  woman  who  has  charge  of 
your  baby.  I  cannot  do  more,  and  I  hope  you'll  be 
satisfied. ' ' 

By  what  right,  by  what  law,  was  she  separated  from 
her  child?  She  w^as  tired  of  hearing  Mrs.  Rivers 
speak  of  "my  child,  my  child,  my  child,"  and  of  seeing 
this  fine  lady  turn  up  her  nose  when  she  spoke  of  her 
own  beautiful  boy.  When  Mrs.  Rivers  came  to 
engage  her  she  had  said  that  it  would  be  better  for  the 
baby  to  be  brought  to  see  her  every  three  or  four 
weeks,  for  two  had  died  already.  At  the  time  Esther 
had  not  understood.  She  had  supposed  vaguely,  in  a 
passing  way,  that  Mrs,   Rivers  had  already  lost  two 


ESTHER     WATERS  189 

children.  But  yesterday  the  housemaid  had  told  her 
that  that  little  thing  in  the  cradle  had  had  two  wet- 
nurses  before  Esther,  and  that  both  babies  had  died. 
It  was  then  a  life  for  a  life.  It  was  more.  The  children 
of  two  poor  girls  had  been  sacrificed  so  that  this  rich 
woman's  child  might  be  saved.  Even  that  was  not 
enough,  the  life  of  her  beautiful  boy  was  called  for. 
Then  other  memories  swept  into  Esther's  frenzied 
brain.  She  remembered  vague  hints,  allusions  that 
Mrs.  Spires  had  thrown  out;  and  as  if  in  the  obtase- 
ness  of  a  nightmare,  it  seemed  to  this  ignorant  girl  that 
she  was  the  victim  of  a  dark  and  far-reaching  con- 
spiracy; she  experienced  the  sensation  of  the  captured 
animal,  and  she  scanned  the  doors  and  windows,  think- 
ing of  some  means  of  escape. 

At  that  moment  a  knock  was  heard  and  the  house- 
maid came  in. 

"The  woman  who  has  charge  of  your  baby  has  come 
to  see  you." 

Esther  started  up  from  her  chair,  and  fat  little  Mrs. 
Spires  waddled  into  the  room,  the  ends  of  her  shawl 
touching  the  ground. 

"Where  is  my  baby?"  said  Esther.  "Why  haven't 
you  brought  him?" 

"Why,  you  see,  my  dear,  the  sweet  little  thing  didn't 
seem  as  well  as  usual  this  afternoon,  and  I  did  not 
care  to  bring  him  out,  it  being  a  long  way  and  a  trifle 
cold.  .  .  .  It  is  nice  and  warm  in  here.  May  I 
sit  down?" 

"Yes,  there's  a  chair;  but  tell  me  what  is  the  matter 
with  him?" 

"A  little  cold,  dear — nothing  to  speak  of.  You  must 
not  excite  ^^ourself,  it  isn't  w^orth  while;  besides,  it's 


190  ESTHER     WATERS 

bad  for  you  and  the  little  darling  in  the  cradle.  May 
I  have  a  look?     .     .      .     A  little  girl,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  it  is  a  girl." 

"And  a  beautiful  little  girl  too.  'Ow  'ealthy  she  do 
look!  I'll  be  bound  you  have  made  a  difference  in 
her.  I  suppose  you  are  beginning  to  like  her  just  as  if 
she  was  your  own?" 

Esther  did  not  answer. 

"Yer  know,  all  you  girls  are  dreadful  taken  with 
their  babies  at  first.  But  they  is  a  awful  drag  on  a  girl 
who  gets  her  living  in  service.  For  my  part  I  do 
think  it  providential-like  that  rich  folk  don't  nurse 
their  own.  If  they  did,  I  dunno  what  would  become 
of  all  you  poor  girls.  The  situation  of  wet-nurse  is 
just  v/hat  you  wants  at  the  time,  and  it  is  good  money. 
I  hope  yer  did  what  I  told  you  and  stuck  out  for  a 
pound  a  week.  Rich  folk  like  these  here  would  think 
nothing  of  a  pound  a  week,  nor  yet  two,  when  they 
sees  their  child  is  suited." 

"Never  mind  about  my  money,  that's  my  affair. 
Tell  me  what's  the  matter  with  my  baby?" 

"  'Ow  yer  do  'arp  on  it!  I've  told  yer  that  'e's  all 
right;  nothing  to  signify,  only  a  little  poorly,  but 
knowing  you  was  that  anxious  I  thought  it  better  to 
come  up.  I  didn't  know  but  what  you  might  like  to 
'ave  in  the  doctor.  * ' 

"Does  he  require  the  doctor?  I  thought  you  said  it 
was  nothing  to  signify." 

"That  depends  on  'ow  yer  looks  at  it.  Some  likes 
to  'ave  in  the  doctor,  however  little  the  ailing;  then 
others  won't  'ave  anything  to  do  with  doctors — don't 
believe  in  them.  So  I  thought  I'd  come  up  and  see 
what  you  thought  about  it.     I  would  'ave  sent  for  the 


ESTHER    WATERS  191 

doctor  this  rnoming — I'm  one  of  those  who  'as  faith  in 
doctors — but  being  a  bit  short  of  money  I  thought  I'd 
come  up  and  ask  you  for  a  trifle. ' ' 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Rivers  came  into  the  nursery 
and  her  first  look  went  in  the  direction  of  the  cradle, 
then  she  turned  to  consider  curtseying  Mrs.  Spires. 

"This  is  Mrs.  Spires,  the  lady  who  is  looking  after 
my  baby,  ma'am,"  said  Esther;  "she  has  come  with 
bad  news — my  baby  is  ill. ' ' 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry.     But  I  daresay  it  is  nothing." 

"But  Mrs.  Spires  says,  ma'am " 

"Yes,  ma'am,  the  little  thing  seemed  a  bit  poorly, 
and  I  being  short  of  money,  ma'am,  I  had  to  come  and 
see  nurse.  I  knows  right  well  that  they  must  not  be 
disturbed,  and  of  course  your  child's  'ealth  is  every- 
thing; but  if  I  may  make  so  bold  I'd  like  to  say  that 
the  little  dear  do  look  beautiful.  Nurse  is  bringing 
her  up  that  well  that  yer  must  have  every  satisfaction 
in  'er." 

"Yes,  she  seems  to  suit  the  child;  that's  the  reason  I 
don't  want  her  upset.  " 

"It  won't  occur  again,  ma'am,  I  promise  you." 

Esther  did  not  answer,  and  her  w^hite,  sullen  face 
remained  unchanged.  She  had  a  great  deal  on  her 
mind,  and  would  have  spoken  if  the  words  did  not  seem 
to  betray  her  when  she  attempted  to  speak. 

"When  the  baby  is  well,  and  the  doctor  is  satisfied 
there  is  no  danger  of  infection,  you  can  bring  it  here 
— once  a  month  will  be  sufificient.  Is  there  anything 
more?" 

"Mrs.  Spires  thinks  my  baby  ought  to  see  the 
doctor. '  * 

"Well,  let  her  send  for  the  doctor." 


192                              ESTHER     WATERS 
"Being  a  bit  short  of  money " 


"How  much  is  it?"  said  Esther. 

"Well,  what  we  pays  is  five  shillings  to  the  doctor, 
but  then  there's  the  medicine  he  will  order,  and  I  was 
going  to  speak  to  you  about  a  piece  of  flannel ;  if  yer 
could  let  me  have  ten  shillings  to  go  on  with. ' ' 

"But  I  haven't  so  much  left.  I  must  see  my  baby," 
and  Esther  moved  towards  the  door. 

"No,  no,  nurse,  I  cannot  hear  of  it;  I'd  sooner  pay 
the  money  myself.  Now,  how  much  do  you  want, 
Mrs.  Spires?" 

"Ten  shillings  will  do  for  the  present,  ma'am." 

"Here  they  are;  let  the  child  have  every  attendance, 
and  remember  you  are  not  to  come  troubling  my  nurse. 
Above  all,  you  are  not  to  come  up  to  the  nursery.  I 
don't  know  how  it  happened,  it  was  a  mistake  on  the 
part  of  the  new  housemaid.  You  must  have  my  per- 
mission before  you  see  my  nurse."  And  while  talking 
rapidly  and  imperatively  Mrs.  Rivers,  as  it  were,  drove 
Mrs.  Spires  out  of  the  nursery.  Esther  could  hear 
them  talking  on  the  staircase,  and  she  listened,  all  the 
while  striving  to  collect  her  thoughts.  Mrs.  Rivers 
said  when  she  returned,  "I  really  cannot  allow  her  to 
come  here  upsetting  you."  Then,  as  if  impressed  by 
the  sombre  look  on  Esther's  face,  she  added:  "Upset- 
ting you  about  nothing.  I  assure  you  it  will  be  all 
right;  only  a  little  indisposition." 

"I  must  see  my  baby,"  Esther  replied. 

*'Come,  nurse,  you  shall  see  your  baby  the  moment 
the  doctor  says  it  is  fit  to  come  here.  You  can't 
expect  me  to  do  more  than  that."  Esther  did  not 
move,  and  thinking  that  it  would  not  be  well  to  argne 
with  her,  Mrs.  Rivers  went  over  to  the  cradle.     "See, 


ESTHER     WATERS  I93 

nurse,  the  little  darling  has  just  woke  up;  come  and 
take  her,  I'm  sure  she  wants  you." 

Esther  did  not  answer  her.  She  stood  looking  into 
space,  and  it  seemed  to  Mrs.  Rivers  that  it  would  be 
better  not  to  provoke  a  scene.  She  went  towards  the 
door  slowly,  but  a  little  cry  from  the  cradle  stopped 
her,  and  she  said —  ., . 

^/'Come,  nurse,  what  is  it?    Come,  the  baby  is  wait- 
ing for  you."  "" 

Then,  like  one  waking  from  a  dream,  Esther  said: 
"If  my  baby  is  all  right,  ma'am,  I'll  come  back,  but  if 
he  wants  me,  I'll  have  to  look  after  him  first." 

"You  forget  that  I'm  paying  you  fifteen  shillings  a 
week.  I  pay  you  for  nursing  my  baby ;  you  take  my 
money,  that's  sufficient." 

"Yes,  I  do  take  your  money,  ma'am.  But  the 
housemaid  has  told  me  that  you  had  two  wet-nurses 
before  me,  and  that  both  their  babies  died,  so  I  cannot 
stop  here  now  that  mine's  ill.  Everyone  for  her  own; 
you  can't  blame  me.  I'm  sorry  for  yours — poor  little 
thing,  she  was  getting  on  nicely  too. 

"But,  Waters,  you  won't  leave  my  baby.  It's  cruel 
of  you.     If  I  could  nurse  it  myself " 

"Why  couldn't  you,  ma'am?  You  look  fairly  strong 
and  healthy." 

Esther  spoke  in  her  quiet,  stolid  way,  finding  her 
words  unconsciously. 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  saying,  nurse;  you 
can't.  .  .  .  You've  forgotten  yourself.  Next 
time  I  engage  a  nurse  I'll  try  to  get  one  who  has  lost 
her  baby,  and  then  there'll  be  no  bother." 

"It  is  a  life  for  a  life — more  than  that,  ma'am — two 
lives  for  a  life ;  and  now  the  life  of  my  boy  is  asked  for. " 


194  ESTHER    WATERS 

A  strange  look  passed  over  Mrs.  Rivers*  face.  She 
knew,  of  course,  that  she  stood  well  within  the  law, 
that  she  was  doing  no  more  than  a  hundred  other 
fashionable  women  were  doing  at  the  same  moment ; 
but  this  plain  girl  had  a  plain  way  of  putting  things, 
and  she  did  not  care  for  it  to  be  publicly  known  that 
the  life  of  her  child  had  been  bought  with  the  lives  of 
two  poor  children./  But  her  temper  was  getting  the 
better  of  her.  ' 

V    *' He'll  only  be  a  drag  on  you.     You'll  never  be  able 
to  bring  him  up,  poor  little  bastard  child. '  * 

*'It  is  wicked  of  you  to  speak  like  that,  ma'am, 
though  it  is  I  who  am  saying  it.  It  is  none  of  the 
child's  fault  if  he  hasn't  got  a  father,  nor  is  it  right 
that  he  should  be  deserted  for  that  .  .  .  and  it  is 
not  for  you  to  tell  me  to  do  such  a  thing.  If  you  had 
made  sacrifice  of  yourself  in  the  beginning  and  nursed 
your  own  child  such  thoughts  would  not  have  come  to 
you.  But  when  you  hire  a  poor  girl  such  as  me  to 
give  the  milk  that  belongs  to  another  to  your  child, 
you  think  nothing  of  the  poor  deserted  one.  He  is  but 
a  bastard,  you  say,  and  had  better  be  dead  and  done 
with.  I  see  it  all  now ;  I  have  been  thinking  it  out. 
It  is  all  so  hidden  up  that  the  meaning  is  not  clear  at 
first,  but  what  it  comes  to  is  this,  that  fine  folks  like 
you  pays  the  money,  and  Mrs.  Spires  and  her  like  gets 
rid  of  the  poor  little  things.  Change  the  milk  a  few 
times,  a  little  neglect,  and  the  poor  servant  girl  is 
spared  the  trouble  of  bringing  up  her  baby  and  can 
make  a  handsome  child  of  the  rich  woman's  little 
starveling." 

At  that  moment  the  baby  began  to  cry;  both  women 
looked  in  the  direction  of  the  cradle. 


ESTE'ER    WATERS  I95 

**  Nurse,  you  have  utterly  forgotten  yourself,  you 
have  talked  a  great  deal  of  nonsense,  you  have  said  a 
great  deal  that  is  untrue.  You  accused  me  of  wishing 
your  baby  were  dead,  indeed  I  hardly  know  what  wild 
remarks  you  did  not  indulge  in.  Of  course,  I  cannot 
put  up  w4th  such  conduct — to-morrow  you  will  come  to 
me  and  apologise.  In  the  meantime  the  baby  wants 
you,  are  you  not  going  to  her?" 

''I'm  going  to  my  own  child." 

"That  means  that  you  refuse  to  nurse  my  baby?" 

*'Yes,  I'm  going  straight  to  look  after  my  own." 

"If  you  leave  my  house  you  shall  never  enter  it 
again." 

"I  don't  want  to  enter  it  again." 

"I  shall  not  pay  you  one  shilling  if  you  leave  my 
baby.     You  have  no  money." 

"I  shall  try  to  manage  without.  I  shall  go  with  my 
baby  to  the  workhouse.  However  bad  the  living  may 
be  there,  he'll  be  with  his  mother." 

"If  you  go  to-night  my  baby  will  die.  She  cannot 
be  brought  up  on  the  bottle." 

"Oh,  I  hope  not,  ma'am.  I  should  be  sorry,  indeed 
I  should." 

"Then  stay,  nurse." 

"I  must  go  to  my  baby,  ma'am." 

"Then  you  shall  go  at  once— this  very  instant." 

"I'm  going  this  very  instant,  as  soon  as  I've  put  on 
my  hat  and  jacket. ' ' 

"You  had  better  take  your  box  with  you.  If  you 
don't  I  shall  have  it  thrown  into  the  street." 

"I  daresay  you're  cruel  enough  to  do  that  if  the  law 
allows  you,  only  be  careful  that  it  do," 


XIX. 

The  moment  Esther  got  out  of  the  house  in  Curzon 
Street  she  felt  in  her  pocket  for  her  money.  She  had 
only  a  few  pence ;  enough  for  her  'bus  fare,  however, 
and  her  thoughts  did  not  go  further.  She  was 
absorbed  by  one  desire,  how  to  save  her  child — how  to 
save  him  from  Mrs.  Spires,  whom  she  vaguely  sus- 
pected; from  the  world,  which  called  him  a  bastard 
and  denied  to  him  the  right  to  live.  And  she  sat  as  if 
petrified  in  the  corner  of  the  'bus,  seeing  nothing  but  a 
little  street  of  four  houses,  facing  some  hay-lofts,  the 
low-pitched  kitchen,  the  fat  woman,  the  cradle  in  the 
corner.  The  intensity  and  the  oneness  of  her  desire 
seemed  to  annihilate  time,  and  when  she  got  out  of  the 
omnibus  she  walked  with  a  sort  of  animal-like  instinct 
straight  for  the  house.  There  was  a  light  in  the 
kitchen  just  as  she  expected,  and  as  she  descended  the 
four  wooden  steps  into  the  area  she  looked  to  see  if 
Mrs.  Spires  was  there.  She  was  there,  and  Esther 
pushed  open  the  door. 

"Where's  my  baby?" 

"Lord,  'ow  yer  did  frighten  me!"  said  Mrs.  Spires, 
turning  from  the  range  and  leaning  against  the  table, 
which  was  laid  for  supper.  "Coming  like  that  into 
other  folk's  places  without  a  word  of  warning — with- 
out as  much  as  knocking  at  the  door." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  was  that  anxious  about 
my  baby." 

iq6 


ESTHER    WATERS  197 

"Was  you  indeed?  It  is  easy  to  see  it  is  the  first 
one.     There  it  is  in  the  cradle  there. " 

"Have  you  sent  for  the  doctor?" 

"Sent  for  the  doctor!  I've  to  get  my  husband's 
supper." 

Esther  took  her  baby  out  of  the  cradle.  It  woke  up 
crying,  and  Esther  said,  "You  don't  mind  my  sitting 
down  a  moment.  The  poor  little  thing  wants  its 
mother. ' ' 

"If  Mrs.  Rivers  saw  you  now  a-nursing  of  yer 
baby?" 

"I  shouldn't  care  if  she  did.  He's  thinner  than 
when  I  left  him;  ten  days  'ave  made  a  difference  in 
him." 

"Well,  yer  don't  expect  a  child  to  do  as  well 
without  its  mother  as  with  her.  But  tell  me,  how  did 
yer  get  out?  You  must  have  come  away  shortly  after 
me. " 

"I  wasn't  going  to  stop  there  and  my  child  ill." 

"Yer  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  yer  'ave  gone  and 
thrown  hup  the  situation?" 

"She  told  me  if  I  went  out,  I  should  never  enter  her 
door  again." 

"And  what  did  you  say?" 

"Told  her  I  didn't  want  to." 

"And  what,  may  I  ask,  are  yer  thinking  of  doing? 
I  'eard  yer  say  yer  'ad  no  money." 

"I  don't  know." 

"Take  my  advice,  and  go  straight  back  and  ask  'er 
to  overlook  it,  this  once." 

"Oh,  no,  she'd  never  take  me  back." 

"Yes,  she  will;  you  suits  the  child,  and  that's  all 
they  think  of . " 


198  ESTHER     WATERS 

"I  don't  know  what  will  become  of  me  and  my 
baby." 

"No  more  don't  I.  Yer  can't  stop  always  in  the 
work'us,  and  a  baby'll  be  a  'eavy  drag  on  you.  Can't 
you  lay  'ands  on  'is  father,  some'ow?" 

Esther  shook  her  head,  and  Mrs.  Spires  noticed  that 
she  was  crying. 

"I'm  all  alone,"  she  said;  "I  don't  know  'ow  I'm 
ever  to  pull  through." 

"Not  with  that  child  yer  won't — it  ain't  possible. 
.  .  You  girls  is  all  alike,  yer  thinks  of  nothing 
but  yer  babies  for  the  first  few  weeks,  then  yer  tires  of 
them,  the  drag  on  yer  is  that  'eavy — I  knows  yer — and 
then  yer  begins  to  wish  they  'ad  never  been  born,  or 
yer  wishes  they  had  died  afore  they  knew  they  was 
alive.  I  don't  say  I'm  not  often  sorry  for  them,  poor 
little  dears,  but  they  takes  less  notice  than  you'd  think 
for,  and  they  is  better  out  of  the  way ;  they  really  is, 
it  saves  a  lot  of  trouble  hereafter.  I  often  do  think 
that  to  neglect  them,  to  let  them  go  off  quiet,  that  I  be 
their  best  friend;  not  wilful  neglect,  yer  know,  but 
what  is  a  woman  to  do  with  ten  or  a  dozen,  and  I 
often  'as  as  many?  I  am  sure  they'd  thank  me  for 
it." 

Esther  did  not  answer,  but  judging  by  her  face  that 
she  had  lost  all  hope,  Mrs.  Spires  was  tempted  to  con- 
tinue. 

"There's  that  other  baby  in  the  far  corner,  that  was 
brought  'ere  since  you  was  'ere  by  a  servant-girl  like 
yerself.  She's  out  a-nursing  of  a  lady's  child,  getting 
a  pound  a  week,  just  as  you  was;  well,  now,  I  asks 
'ow  she  can  'ope  to  bring  up  that  'ere  child — a  weakly 
little  thing  that  wants  the  doctor  and  all  sorts  of  look- 


c 


ESTHER    WATERS  I99 

ing  after.  If  that  child  was  to  live  it  would  be  the  ruin 
of  that  girl's  life.     Don't  yer  'ear  what  I'm  saying?" 

"Yes,  I  hear,"  said  Esther,  speaking  like  one  in  a 
dream;  "don't  she  care  for  her  baby,  then?" 

"She  used  to  care  for  them,  but  if  they  had  all  lived 
I  should  like  to  know  where  she'd  be.  There  'as  been 
five  of  them — that's  the  fifth — so,  instead  of  them 
a-costing  'er  money,  they  brings  'er  money.  She  'as 
never  failed  yet  to  suit  'erself  in  a  situation  as  wet- 
nurse." 

"And  they  all  died?" 

"Yes,  they  all  died;  and  this  little  one  don't  look  as 
if  it  was  long  for  the  world,  do  it?"  said  Mrs.  Spires, 
who  fiad  taken  the  infant  from  the  cradle  to  show 
Esther.  Esther  looked  at  the  poor  wizened  features, 
twitched  with  pain,  and  the  far-off  cry  of  doom,  a  tiny 
tinkle  from  the  verge,  shivered  in  the  ear  with  a 
strange  pathos. 

"It  goes  to  my  'eart, "  said  Mrs.  Spires,  "it  do 
indeed,  but,  Lord,  it  is  the  best  that  could  'appen  to 
'em;  who's  to  care  for  'em?  and  there  is  'undreds  and 
'undreds  of  them — ay,  thousands  and  thousands  every 
year — and  they  all  dies  like  the  early  shoots.  It  is 
'ard,  very  'ard,  poor  little  dears,  but  they  is  best  out  of 
the  way — they  is  only  an  expense  and  a  disgrace. ' ' 

Mrs.  Spires  talked  on  in  a  rapid,  soothing,  soporific 
voice.  She  had  just  finished  pouring  some  milk  in 
the  baby's  bottle  and  had  taken  down  a  jug  of  water 
from  the  dresser. 

"But  that's  cold  water,"  said  Esther,  waking  from 
the  stupor  of  her  despair;  "it  will  give  the  baby  gripes 
for  certain. ' ' 

"I've  no  'ot  water  ready;    I'll  let  the  bottle  stand 


200  ESTHER    WATERS 

afore  the  fire,  that'll  do  as  well."^  Watching  Esther  all 
the  while,  Mrs.  Spires  held  the  bottle  a  few  moments 
before  the  fire,  and  then  gave  it  to  the  child  to  suck. 
Very  soon  after  a  cry  of  pain  came  from  the  cradle. 

"The  little  dear  never  was  well;  it  wouldn't  surprise 
me  a  bit  if  it  died— went  off  before  morning.  It  do 
look  that  poorly.  One  can't  'elp  being  sorry  for 
them,  though  one  knows  there  is  no  'ouse  for  them 
'ere.  Poor  little  angels,  and  not  even  baptised. 
There's  them  that  thinks  a  lot  of  getting  that  over. 
But  who's  to  baptise  the  little  angels?" 

"Baptise  them?"  Esther  repeated.  "Oh,  sprinkle 
them,  you  mean.  That's  not  the  way  with  the  Lord's 
people;"  and  to  escape  from  a  too  overpowering 
reality  she  continued  to  repeat  the  half-forgotten  patter 
of  the  Brethren,  "You  must  wait  until  it  is  a  symbol 
of  living  faith  in  the  Lord!"  And  taking  the  baby  in 
her  hands  for  a  moment,  the  wonder  crossed  her  mind 
whether  he  would  ever  grow  up  and  find  salvation  and 
testify  to  the  Lord  as  an  adult  in  voluntary  baptism. 

All  the  while  Mrs.  Spires  was  getting  on  with  her 
cooking.  Several  times  she  looked  as  if  she  were 
going  to  speak,  and  several  times  she  checked  herself. 
In  truth,  she  didn't  know  what  to  make  of  Esther. 
Was  her  love  of  her  child  such  love  as  would  enable 
her  to  put  up  with  all  hardships  for  its  sake,  or  was  it 
the  fleeting  affection  of  the  ordinary  young  mother, 
which,  though  ardent  at  first,  gives  way  under  diffi- 
culties? Mrs.  Spires  had  heard  many  mothers  talk  as 
Esther  talked,  but  when  the  real  strain  of  life  was  put 
upon  them  they  had  yielded  to  the  temptation  of  rid- 
ding themselves  of  their  burdens.  So  Mrs.  Spires 
could  not  believe  that  Esther  was  really  different  from 


ESTHER     WATERS  201 

the  others,  and  if  carefully  handled  she  would  do  what 
the  others  had  done.  Still,  there  was  something  in 
Esther  which  kept  Mrs.  Spires  from  making  any  dis- 
tinct proposal.  But  it  were  a  pity  to  let  the  girl  slip 
through  her  fingers — five  pounds  were  not  picked  up 
every  day.  There  were  three  five-pound  notes  in  the 
cradles.  If  Esther  would  listen  to  reason  there  would 
be  twenty  pounds,  and  the  money  was  wanted  badly. 
Once  more  greed  set  Mrs.  Spires'  tongue  flowing,  and, 
representing  herself  as  a  sort  of  guardian  angel,  she 
spoke  again  about  the  mother  of  the  dying  child,  press- 
ing Esther  to  think  what  the  girl's  circumstances 
would  have  been  if  they  had  all  lived. 

*'And  they  all  died?"  said  Esther. 

*'Yes,  and  a  good  job,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Spires,  whose 
temper  for  the  moment  outsped  her  discretion.  Was 
this  penniless  drab  doing  it  on  purpose  to  annoy  her? 
A  nice  one  indeed  to  high-and-mighty  it  over  her. 
She  would  show  her  in  mighty  quick  time  she  had 
come  to  the  wrong  shop.  Just  as  Mrs.  Spires  was 
about  to  speak  out  she  noticed  that  Esther  was  in 
tears.  Mrs.  Spires  always  looked  upon  tears  as  a  good 
sign,  so  she  resolved  to  give  her  one  more  chance. 
"What  are  you  crying  about?"  she  said. 

"Oh,"  said  Esther,  "I  don't  even  know  where  I 
shall  sleep  to-night.  I  have  only  threepence,  and  not 
a  friend  in  the  world. ' ' 

"Now  look  'ere,  if  you'll  listen  to  reason  I'll  talk  to 
you.  Yer  mustn't  look  upon  me  as  a  henemy.  I've 
been  a  good  friend  to  many  a  poor  girl  like  you  afore 
now,  and  I'll  be  one  to  you  if  you're  sensible  like.  I'll 
do  for  you  what  I'm  doing  for  the  other  girl.  Give  me 
five  pounds " 


202  ESTHER     WATERS 

*'Five  pounds!  I've  only  a  few  pence." 
•'  'Ear  me  out.  Go  back  to  yer  situation — she'll  take 
you  back,  yer  suits  the  child,  that's  all  she  cares  about; 
ask  'er  for  an  advance  of  five  pounds;  she'll  give  it 
when  she  'ears  it  is  to  get  rid  of  yer  child — they  'ates 
their  nurses  to  be  a-'ankering  after  their  own,  they 
likes  them  to  be  forgotten  like ;  they  asks  if  the  child 
is  dead  very  often,  and  won't  engage  them  if  it  isn't, 
so  believe  me  she'll  give  yer  the  money  when  yer  tells 
'er  that  it  is  to  give  the  child  to  someone  who  wants  to 
adopt  it.     That's  what  you  'as  to  say." 

"And  you'll  take  the  child  off  my  hands  for  ever  for 
five  pounds?" 

"Yes;  and  if  you  likes  to  go  out  again  as  wet-nurse, 
I'll  take  the  second  off  yer  'ands  too,  and  at  the  same 
price." 

"You  wicked  woman;  oh,  this  is  awful!" 
"Come,    com.e.     .     .     .     What    do    you    mean     by 
talking  to  me  like  that?     And  because  I  offered  to  find 
someone  who  would  adopt  your  child." 

"You  did  nothing  of  the  kind;  ever  since  I've  been 
in  your  house  you  have  been  tr>nng  to  get  me  to  give 
you  up  my  child  to  murder  as  you  are  murdering  those 
poor  innocents  in  the  cradles. 

"It  is  a  lie,  but  I  don't  want  no  hargument  with  yer; 
pay  me  what  you  owe  me  and  take  yerself  hoff.  I 
want  no  more  of  yer,  do  you  'ear?" 

Esther  did  not  shrink  before  her  as  Mrs.  Spires 
expected.  Clasping  her  baby  more  tightly,  she  said : 
"I've  paid  you  what  I  owe  you,  you've  had  more  than 
your  due.  Mrs.  Rivers  gave  you  ten  shillings  for  a 
doctor  which  you  didn't  send  for.  Let  me  go." 
"Yes,  when  yer  pays  me." 


ESTHER     WATERS  203 

"What's  all  this  row  about?"  said  a  tall,  red-bearded 
man  who  had  just  come  in;  "no  one  takes  their  babies 
out  of  this  'ere  'ouse  before  they  pays.  Come  now, 
come  now,  who  are  yer  getting  at?  If  yer  thinks  yer 
can  come  here  insulting  of  my  wife  yer  mistaken; 
yer've  come  to  the  wrong  shop." 

"I've  paid  all  I  owe,"  said  Esther.  "You're  no 
better  than  murderers,  but  yer  shan't  have  my  poor 
babe  to  murder  for  a  five-pound  note." 

"Take  back  them  words,  or  else  I'll  do  for  yer;  take 
them  back,"  he  said,  raising  his  fist. 

"Help,  help,  murder!"  Esther  screamed.  Before 
the  brute  could  seize  her  she  had  slipped  past,  but 
before  she  could  scream  again  he  had  laid  hold  of  her. 
Esther  thought  her  last  moment  had  come. 

"Let  'er  go,  let  'ergo,"  cried  Mrs.  Spires,  clinging  on 
her  husband's  arm.   "We  don't  want  the  perlice  in  'ere. ' ' 

"Perlice!  What  do  I  care  about  the  perlice?  Let 
'er  pay  what  she  owes." 

"Never  mind,  Tom;  it  is  only  a  trifle.  Let  her  go. 
Now  then,  take  yer  hook,"  she  said,  turning  to  Esther; 
"we  don't  want  nothing  to  do  with  such  as  you." 

With  a  growl  the  man  loosed  his  hold,  and  feeling 
herself  free  Esther  rushed  through  the  open  doorway. 
Her  feet  flew  up  the  wooden  steps  and  she  ran  out  of 
the  street.  So  shaken  were  her  nerves  that  the  sight 
of  some  men  drinking  in  a  public-house  frightened  her. 
She  ran  on  again.  There  w^as  a  cab-stand  in  the  next 
street,  and  to  avoid  the  cabmen  and  the  loafers  she 
hastily  crossed  to  the  other  side.  Her  heart  beat 
violently,  her  thoughts  were  in  disorder,  and  she 
walked  a  long  while  before  she  realised  that  she  did  not 
know  where  she  was  going.     She  stopped  to  ask  the 


204  ESTHER    WATERS 

way,  and  then  remembered  there  was  no  place  where 
she  might  go. 

She  would  have  to  spend  the  night  in  the  workhouse, 
and  then?  She  did  not  know.  .  .  .  All  sorts  of 
thoughts  came  upon  her  unsolicited,  and  she  walked  on 
and  on.  At  last  she  rested  her  burden  on  the  parapet 
of  a  bridge,  and  saw  the  London  night,  blue  and  gold, 
vast  water  rolling,  and  the  spectacle  of  the  stars  like 
a  dream  from  which  she  could  not  disentangle  her  indi- 
viduality. Was  she  to  die  in  the  star-lit  city,  she  and 
her  child;  and  why  should  such  cruelty  happen  to  her 
more  than  to  the  next  one?  Steadying  her  thoughts 
with  an  effort,  she  said,  "Why  not  go  to  the  work- 
house, only  for  the  night?  .  .  .  She  did  not  mind 
for  herself,  only  she  did  not  wish  her  boy  to  go  there. 
But  if  God  willed  it.     .     .     ." 

She  drew  her  shawl  about  her  baby  and  tried  once 
more  to  persuade  herself  into  accepting  the  shelter  of 
the  workhouse.  It  seemed  strange  even  to  her  that  a 
pale,  glassy  moon  should  float  high  up  in  the  sky,  and 
that  she  should  suffer ;  and  then  she  looked  at  the  lights 
that  fell  like  golden  daggers  from  the  Surrey  shore 
into  the  river.  What  had  she  done  to  deserve  the 
workhouse?  Above  all,  what  had  the  poor,  innocent 
child  done  to  deserve  it?  She  felt  that  if  she  once 
entered  the  workhouse  she  would  remain  there.  She 
and  her  child  paupers  for  ever.  "But  what  can  I 
do?"  she  asked  herself  crazily,  and  sat  down  on  one 
of  the  seats. 

A  young  man  coming  home  from  an  evening  party 
looked  at  her  as  he  passed.  She  asked  herself  if  she 
should  run  after  him  and  tell  him  her  story.  Why 
should  he  not  assist  her?     He  could  so  easily  spare  it. 


ESTHER     WATERS  205 

Would  he?  But  before  she  could  decide  to  appeal  to 
him  he  had  called  a  passing  hansom  and  was  soon  far 
away.  Then  looking  at  the  windows  of  the  great 
hotels,  she  thought  of  the  folk  there  who  could  so 
easily  save  her  from  the  workhouse  if  they  knew. 
There  must  be  many  a  kind  heart  behind  those  win- 
dows who  would  help  her  if  she  could  only  make 
known  her  trouble.  But  that  was  the  difficulty.  She 
could  not  make  known  her  trouble ;  she  could  not  tell 
the  misery  she  was  enduring.  She  was  so  ignorant ;  she 
could  not  make  herself  understood.  She  would  be  mis- 
taken for  a  common  beggar.  Nowhere  would  she  find 
anyone  to  listen  to  her.  Was  this  punishment  for  her 
wrong-doing?  An  idea  of  the  blind  cruelty  of  fate  mad-  ■ 
dened  her,  and  in  the  delirium  of  her  misery  she  asked  i 
herself  if  it  would  not  have  been  better,  perhaps,  if  she  J 
had  left  him  with  Mrs.  Spires.  What  indeed  had  the 
poor  little  fellow  to  live  for?  A  young  man  in  even- 
ing dress  came  towards  her,  looking  so  happy  and 
easy  in  life,  walking  with  long,  swinging  strides.  He 
stopped  and  asked  her  if  she  was  out  for  a  walk. 

"No,  sir;  I'm  out  because  I've  no  place  to  go." 

"How's  that?" 

She  told  him  the  story  of  the  baby  farmer  and  he 
listened  kindly,  and  she  thought  the  necessar>^  miracle 
was  about  to  happen.  But  he  only  complimented  her 
on  her  pluck  and  got  up  to  go.  Then  she  understood 
that  he  did  not  care  to  listen  to  sad  stories,  and  a 
vagrant  came  and  sat  down. 

"The  'copper,'  "  he  said,  "will  be  moving  us  on  pres- 
ently. It  don't  much  matter;  it's  too  cold  to  get  to 
sleep,  and  I  think  it  will  rain.     My  cough  is  that  bad. " 

She  might  beg  a  night's  lodging  of  Mrs.  Jones.     It 


2o6  ESTHER    WATERS 

was  far  away ;  she  did  not  think  she  could  walk  so  far. 
Mrs.  Jones  might  have  left,  then  what  would  she  do? 
The  workhouse  up  there  was  much  the  same  as  the 
workhouse  down  here.  Mrs.  Jones  couldn't  keep  her 
for  'nothing,  and  there  was  no  use  trying  for  another 
situation  as  wet-nurse ;  the  hospital  would  not  recom- 
mend her  again.  .  .  .  She  must  go  to  the  work- 
house. Then  her  thoughts  wandered.  She  thought  of 
her  father,  brothers,  and  sisters,  who  had  gone  to 
Australia.     She  wondered  if  they  had  yet  arrived,  if 

they  ever  thought  of  her,  if She  and  her  baby 

were  on  their  way  to  the  workhouse.  They  were 
going  to  become  paupers.  She  looked  at  the  vagrant 
— he  had  fallen  asleep.  He  knew  all  about  the  work- 
house— should  she  ask  him  what  it  was  like?  He,  too, 
was  friendless.  If  he  had  a  friend  he  would  not  be 
sleeping  on  the  Embankment.  Should  she  ask  him? 
Poor  chap,  he  was  asleep.  People  were  happy  when 
they  were  asleep. 

A  full  moon  floated  high  up  in  the  sky,  and  the  city 
was  no  more  than  a  faint  shadow  on  the  glassy  still- 
ness of  the  night ;  and  she  longed  to  float  away  with 
the  moon  and  the  river,  to  be  borne  away  out  of  sight 
of  this  world. 

Her  baby  grew  heavy  in  her  arms,  and  the  vagrant, 
a  bundle  of  rags  thrown  forward  in  a  heap,  slept  at  the 
other  end  of  the  bench.  But  she  could  not  sleep,  and 
the  moon  whirled  on  her  miserable  way.  Then  the 
glassy  stillness  was  broken  by  the  measured  tramp  of 
the  policeman  going  his  rounds.  He  directed  her  to 
Lambeth  Workhouse,  and  as  she  walked  towards  West- 
minster she  heard  him  rousing  the  vagrant  and  bidding 
him  move  onward. 


XX. 

Those  who  came  to  the  workhouse  for  servants  never 
offered  more  than  fourteen  pounds  a  year,  and  these 
wages  would  not  pay  for  her  baby's  keep  out  at  nurse. 
Her  friend  the  matron  did  all  she  could,  but  it  was 
always  fourteen  pounds.  "We  cannot  afford  more." 
At  last  an  offer  of  sixteen  pounds  a  year  came  from  a 
tradesman  in  Chelsea;  and  the  matron  introduced 
Esther  to  Mrs.  Lewis,  a  lonely  widowed  woman,  who 
for  five  shillings  a  week  would  undertake  to  look  after 
the  child.  This  would  leave  Esther  three  pounds  a 
year  for  dress ;  three  pounds  a  year  for  herself. 

What  luck! 

The  shop  was  advantageously  placed  at  a  street  cor- 
ner. Twelve  feet  of  fronting  on  the  King's  Road,  and 
more  than  half  that  amount  on  the  side  street,  exposed 
to  every  view  wall  papers  and  stained  glass  designs. 
The  dwelling-house  was  over  the  shop ;  the  shop  en- 
trance faced  the  kerb  in  the  King's  Road. 

The  Bingleys  were  Dissenters.  They  were  ugly,  7 
and  exacted  the  uttermost  farthing  from  ^^ their  cus- 
tomers and  their  workpeople.  Mrs.  Bingley  was  a  tall, 
gaunt  woman,  with  little  grey  ringlets  on  either  side 
of  her  face.  She  spoke  in  a  sour,  resolute  voice,  when 
she  came  down  in  a  wrapper  to  superintend  the  cook- 
ing. On  Sundays  she  wore  a  black  satin,  fastened 
with  a  cameo  brooch,  and  round  her  neck  a  long  gold 
chain.     Then  her  manners  were  lofty,  and  when  her 

ao7 


2o8  ESTHER    WATERS 

husband  called  ''Mother,"  she  answered  testily, 
*'Don't  keep  on  mothering  me."  She  frequently 
stopped  him  to  settle  his  necktie  or  collar.  All  the 
week  he  wore  the  same  short  jacket;  on  Sundays  he 
appeared  in  an  ill-fitting  frock-coat.  His  long  upper 
lip  was  clean  shaven,  but  under  his  chin  there  grew  a 
ring  of  discoloured  hair,  neither  brown  nor  red,  but 
the  neutral  tint  that  hair  which  does  not  turn  grey 
acquires.  When  he  spoke  he  opened  his  mouth  wide, 
and  seemed  quite  unashamed  of  the  empty  spaces  and 
the  three  or  four  yellow  fangs  that  remained. 

John,  the  elder  of  the  two  brothers,  was  a  silent 
youth  whose  one  passion  seemed  to  be  eavesdropping. 
He  hung  round  doors  in  the  hopes  of  overhearing  his 
sister's  conversation  and  if  he  heard  Esther  and 
the  little  girl  who  helped  Esther  in  her  work  talk- 
ing in  the  kitchen,  he  would  steal  cautiously  half- 
way down  the  stairs.  Esther  often  thought  that 
his  young  woman  must  be  sadly  in  want  of  a  sweet- 
heart to  take  on  with  one  such  as  he.  "Come  along. 
Amy,"  he  would  cry,  passing  out  before  her;  and  not 
even  at  the  end  of  a  long  walk  did  he  offer  her  his 
arm;  and  they  came  strolling  home  just  like  boy  and 
girl. 

Hubert,  John's  younger  brother,  was  quite  different. 
He  had  escaped  the  family  temperament,  as  he  had 
escaped  the  family  upper  lip.  He  was  the  one  spot  oi 
colour  in  a  somewhat  sombre  household,  and  Esther 
liked  to  hear  him  call  back  to  his  mother,  "All  right, 
mother,  Pve  got  the  key;  no  one  need  wait  up  for 
me.     I'll  make  the  door  fast." 

**Oh,  Hubert,  don't  be  later  than  eleven.  You  are 
not  going  out  dancing  again,   are  you?     Your  father 


ESTHER    WATERS  209 

will  have  the  electric  bell  put  on  the  door,  so  that  he 
may  know  when  you  come  in." 

The  four  girls  were  all  ruddy-complexioned  and 
long  upper-lipped.  The  eldest  was  the  plainest ;  she 
kept  her  father's  books,  and  made  the  pastry.  The 
second  and  third  entertained  vague  hopes  of  marriage. 
The  youngest  was  subject  to  hysterics,  fits  of  some 
kind. 

The  Bingleys'  own  house  was  representative  of  their 
ideas,  and  the  taste  they  had  imposed  upon  the  neigh- 
bourhood. The  staircase  was  covered  with  white 
drugget,  and  the  white  enamelled  walls  had  to  be  kept 
scrupulously  clean.  There  were  no  flowers  in  the 
windows,  but  the  springs  of  the  blinds  were  always  in 
perfect  order.  The  drawing-room  was  furnished  with 
substantial  tables,  cabinets  and  chairs,  and  antimacas- 
sars, long  and  wide,  and  china  ornaments  and  glass 
vases.  There  was  a  piano,  and  on  this  instrument, 
every  Sunday  evening,  hymns  were  played  by  one  of 
the  young  ladies,  and  the  entire  family  sang  in  the 
chorus. 

It  was  into  this  house  that  Esther  entered  as  general 
servant,  with  wages  fixed  at  sixteen  pounds  a  year. 
And  for  seventeen  long  hours  every  day,  for  two  hun- 
dred and  thirty  hours  every  fortnight,  she  washed,  she 
scrubbed,  she  cooked,  she  ran  errands,  with  never  a 
moment  that  she  might  call  her  own.  Every  second 
Sunday  she  was  allowed  out  for  four,  perhaps  for  four 
and  a  half  hours;  the  time  fixed  was  from  three  to 
nine,  but  she  was  expected  to  be  back  in  time  to  get 
the  supper  ready,  and  if  it  were  many  minutes  later 
than  nine  there  were  complaints. 

She  had  no  money.      Her  quarter's  wages  would  not 


210  ESTHER     WATERS 

be    due  for  another    fortnight,   and  as  thej^  did    not 
coincide  with  her  Sunday  out,  she  would  not  see  her 
baby  for  another  three  weeks.     She  had  not  seen  him 
for  a  month,  and  a  great  longing  was  in  her  heart  to 
clasp  him  in  her  arms  again,  to  feel  his  soft  cheek 
against  hers,  to  take  his  chubby  legs  and  warm,  fat 
feet  in  her  hands.     The  four  lovely  hours  of  liberty 
would  slip  by,  she  would  enter  en  another  long  fort- 
night of  slavery.     But  no  matter,  only  to  get  them, 
however  quickly  they  sped  from  her.     She  resigned 
herself  to  her  fate,  her  soul  rose  in  revolt,  and  it  grew 
hourly  more  difficult  for  her  to  renounce  this  pleasure. 
,  She  must  pawn  her  dress— the  only  decent  dress  she 
had  left.     No  matter,    she  must   see   the  child.     She 
would  be  able  to  get  the  dress  out  of  pawn  when  she 
was  paid  her  wages.     Then  she   would  have  to  buy 
herself  a  pair  of  boots;  and  she  owed  Mrs.   Lewis  a 
good  deal  of  money.     Five  shillings  a  week  came  to 
thirteen  pound  a  year,  leaving  her  three  pound  a  year 
for  boots  and  clothes,  journeys  back  and  forward,  and 
everything  the  baby  might  want.     Oh,  it  was  not  to 
be   done— she  never  would  be  able  to  pull  through. 
She  dare  not  pawn  her  dress ;  if  she  did  she'd  never  be 
able  to  get  it  out  again.     At  that  moment  something 
bright  lying  on  the  floor,  under  the  basin-stand,  caught 
her  eye.     It  was  half-a-crown.     She  looked  at  it,  and 
as  the  temptation   came  into  her  heart  to   steal,  she 
raised  her  eyes  and  looked  round  the  room. 

She  was  in  John's  room— in  the  sneak's  room.  No 
one  was  about.  She  would  have  cut  off  one  of  her 
fingers  for  the  coin.  That  half-crown  meant  pleasure 
and  a  happiness  so  tender  and  seductive  that  she  closed 
her   eyes  for  a  moment.      The  half-crown    she  held 


ESTHER    WATERS  211 

between  forefinger  and  thumb  presented  a  ready  solu- 
tion of  the  besetting  difficulty.  She  threw  out  the 
insidious  temptation,  but  it  came  quickly  upon  her 
again.  If  she  did  not  take  the  half-crown  she  would 
not  be  able  to  go  to  Peckham  on  Sunday.  She  could 
replace  the  money  where  she  found  it  when  she  was 
paid  her  wages.  No  one  knew  it  was  there;  it  had 
evidently  rolled  there,  and  having  tumbled  between 
the  carpet  and  the  wall  had  not  been  discovered.  It 
had  probably  lain  there  for  months,  perhaps  it  was 
utterly  forgotten.  Besides,  she  need  not  take  it  now. 
It  would  be  quite  safe  if  she  put  it  back  in  its  place ;  on 
Sunday  afternoon  she  would  take  it,  and  if  she  changed 

it  at  once It  was  not  marked.     She  examined  it 

all  over.  No,  it  was  not  marked.  Then  the  desire 
paused,  and  she  wondered  how  she,  an  honest  girl,  who 
had  never  harboured  a  dishonest  thought  in  her  life 
before,  could  desire  to  steal ;  a  bitter  feeling  of  shame 
came  upon  her. 

It  was  a  case  of  flying  from  temptation,  and  she  left 
the  room  so  hurriedly  that  John,  who  was  spying  in  the 
passage,  had  not  time  either  to  slip  downstairs  or  to 
hide  in  his  brother's  room.     They  met  face  to  face. 

"Oh,  I  beg  pardon,  sir,  but  I  found  this  half-crown 
in  your  room." 

"Well,  there's  nothing  wonderful  in  that.  What 
are  you  so  agitated  about?  I  suppose  you  intended  to 
return  it  to  me?" 

*' Intended  to  return  it!     Of  course." 

An  expression  of  hate  and  contempt  leaped  into  her 
handsome  grey  eyes,  and,  like  a  dog's,  the  red  lip 
turned  down.  She  suddenly  understood  that  this 
pasty-faced,     despicable    chap    had    placed    the    coin 


212  ESTHER     WATERS 

where  it  might  have  accidentally  rolled,  where  she 
would  be  likely  to  find  it.  He  had  complained  that 
morning  that  she  did  not  keep  his  room  sufficiently 
clean!  It  was  a  carefully-laid  plan,  he  was  watching 
her  all  the  while,  and  no  doubt  thought  that  it  was  his 
own  indiscretion  that  had  prevented  her  from  falling 
into  the  snare.  Without  a  word  Esther  dropped  the 
half-crown  at  his  feet  and  returned  to  her  work ;  and 
all  the  time  she  remained  in  her  present  situation  she 
persistently  refused  to  speak  to  him ;  she  brought  him 
what  he  asked  for,  but  never  answered  him,  even  with 
a  Yes  or  No. 

It  was  during  the  few  minutes'  rest  after  dinner  that 
the  burden  of  the  day  pressed  heaviest  upon  her ;  then 
a  painful  weariness  grew  into  her  limbs,  and  it  seemed 
impossible  to  summon  strength  and  will  to  beat  car- 
pets or  sweep  down  the  stairs.  But  if  she  were  not 
moving  about  before  the  clock  struck,  Mrs.  Bingley 
came  down  to  the  kitchen. 

*'Now,  Esther,  is  there  nothing  for  you  to  do?" 
And  again,  about  eight  o'clock,  she  felt  too  tired  to 
bear  the  weight  of  her  own  flesh.  She  had  passed 
through  fourteen  hours  of  almost  unintermittent  toil, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  would  never  be  able  to 
summon  up  sufficient  courage  to  get  through  the  last 
three  hours.  It  was  this  last  summit  that  taxed  all  her 
strength  and  all  her  will.  Even  the  rest  that  awaited 
her  at  eleven  o'clock  was  blighted  by  the  knowledge 
of  the  day  that  was  coming ;  and  its  cruel  hours,  long 
and  lean  and  hollow-eyed,  stared  at  her  through  the 
darkness.  She  was  often  too  tired  to  rest,  and  rolled 
over  and  over  in  her  miserable  garret  bed,  her  whole 
body  aching.     Toil  crushed  all  that  was  human  out  of 


ESTHER    WATERS  213 

her ;  even  her  baby  was  growing  indifferent  to  her.  If 
it  were  to  die!  She  did  not  desire  her  baby's  death, 
but  she  could  not  forget  what  the  baby-farmer  had  told 
her — the  burden  would  not  become  lighter,  it  would 
become  heavier  and  heavier.  What  would  become  of 
her?  Was  there  no  hope?  She  buried  her  face  in  her 
pillow,  seeking  to  escape  from  the  passion  of  her 
despair.  She  was  an  unfortunate  girl,  and  had  missed 
all  her  chances. 

In  the  six  months  she  had  spent  in  the  house  in 
Chelsea  her  nature  had  been  strained  to  the  uttermost, 
and  what  we  call  chance  now  came  to  decide  the  course 
of  her  destiny.  The  fight  between  circumstances  and 
character  had  gone  till  now  in  favour  of  character,  but 
circumstances  must  call  up  no  further  forces  against 
character.  A  hair  would  turn  the  scale  either  way. 
One  morning  she  was  startled  out  of  her  sleep  by  a 
loud  knocking  at  the  door.  It  was  Mrs.  Bingley,  who 
had  come  to  ask  her  if  she  knew  what  time  it  was.  It 
was  nearly  seven  o'clock.  But  Mrs.  Bingley  could  not 
blame  her  much,  having  herself  forgotten  to  put  on  the 
electric  bell,  and  Esther  hurried  through  her  dressing. 
But  in  hurrying  she  happened  to  tread  on  her  dress, 
tearing  it  'right  across.  It  was  most  unfortunate,  and 
just  when  she  was  most  in  a  hurry.  She  held  up  the 
torn  skirt.  It  was  a  poor,  frayed,  worn-out  rag  that 
would  hardly  bear  mending  again.  Her  mistress  was 
calling  her ;  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  run  down 
and  tell  her  what  had  happened. 

"Haven't  you  got  another  dress  that  you  can  put 
on?" 

'*No,  ma'am." 

*' Really,  I  can't  have  you  going  to  the  door  in  that 


2  14  ESTHER    WATERS 

thing.     You  don't  do  credit  to  my  house;    you  must 
get  yourself  a  new  dress  at  once. ' ' 

Esther  muttered  that  she  had  no  money  to  buy  one. 

"Then  I  don't  know  what  you  do  with  your  money. " 

"What  I  do  with  my  wages  is  my  affair;  I've  plenty 
of  use  for  my  money." 

' '  I  cannot  allow  any  servant  of  mine  to  speak  to  me 
like  that."  ..  r- - 

^Esther  did  not  answer,  and'  Mrs.  Bingley  continued — 

"It  is  my  duty  to  know  what  you  do  with  your 
money,  and  to  see  that  you  do  not  spend  it  in  any 
wrong  way.  I  am  responsible  for  your  moral  wel- 
fare." 

"Then,  ma'am,  I  think  I  had  better  leave  you." 

"Leave  me,  because  I  don't  wish  you  to  spend  your 
money  wTongfully,  because  I  know  the  temptations 
that  a  young  girl's  life  is  beset  with?" 

"There  ain't  much  chance  of  temptation  for  them 
who  work  seventeen  hours  a  day. ' ' 

"Esther,  you  seem  to  forget " 

"No,  ma'am;  but  there's  no  use  talking  about  what 
1  do  with  my  money — there  are  other  reasons;    the 
place  is  too  hard  a  one.     I've  felt  it  so  for  some  time 
ma'am.     My  health  ain't  equal  to  it." 

Once  she  had  spoken,  Esther  showed  no  disposition 
to  retract,  and  she  steadily  resisted  all  Mrs.  Bingley's 
solicitations  to  remain  with  her.  She  knew  the  risk 
she  was  running  in  leaving  her  situation,  and  yet  she 
felt  she  must  yield  to  an  instinct  like  that  which  impels 
the  hunted  animal  to  leave  the  cover  and  seek  safety 
in  the  open  country.  Her  whole  body  cried  out  for 
rest,  she  must  have  rest ;  that  was  the  thing  that  must 
be.      Mrs.   Lewis   would  keep  her  and  her  baby  for 


ESTHER    WATERS  215 

twelve  shillings  a  week ;  the  present  was  the  Christmas 
quarter,  and  she  was  richer  by  five  and  twenty  shillings 
than  she  had  been  before.  Mrs.  Bingley  had  given  her 
ten  shillings,  Mr.  Hubert  five,  and  the  other  ten  had 
been  contributed  by  the  four  young  ladies.  Out  of 
this  money  she  hoped  to  be  able  to  buy  a  dress  and  a 
pair  of  boots,  as  well  as  a  fortnight's  rest  with  Mrs. 
Lewis.  She  had  determined  on  her  plans  some  three 
weeks  before  her  month's  warning  would  expire,  and 
henceforth  the  mountainous  days  of  her  servitude  drew 
out  interminably,  seeming  more  than  ever  exhausting, 
and  the  longing  in  her  heart  to  be  free  at  times  rose 
to  her  head,  and  her  brain  turned  as  if  in  delirium. 
Every  time  she  sat  down  to  a  meal  she  remembered 
she  was  so  many  hours  nearer  to  rest — a  fortnight's 
rest — she  could  not  afford  more;  but  in  her  present 
slavery  that  fortnight  seemed  at  once  as  a  paradise  and 
an  eternity.  Her  only  fear  was  that  her  health  might 
give  way,  and  that  she  would  be  laid  up  during  the 
time  she  intended  for  rest — personal  rest.  Her  baby 
was  lost  sight  of.  Even  a  mother  demands  something 
in  return  for  her  love,  and  in  the  last  year  Jackie  had 
taken  much  and  given  nothing.  But  when  she  opened 
Mrs.  Lewis's  door  he  came  running  to  her,  calling  her 
Mummie ;  and  the  immediate  preference  he  showed  for 
her,  climbing  on  her  knees  instead  of  on  ^Irs.  Lewis's, 
was  a  fresh  sowing  of  love  in  the  mother's  heart. 

They  were  in  the  midst  of  those  few  days  of  sunny 
weather  which  come  in  January,  deluding  us  so  with 
their  brightness  and  warmth  that  we  look  round  for 
roses  and  are  astonished  to  see  the  earth  bare  of 
flowers.  And  these  bright  afternoons  Esther  spent 
entirely  with  Jackie.     At  the  top  of  the  hill  their  way 


x-vx>0 


2i6  ESTHER    WATERS 

led  through  a  narrow  passage  between  a  brick  wall  and 
a  high  paling.  She  had  always  to  carry  him  through 
this  passage,  for  the  ground  there  was  sloppy  and 
dirty,  and  the  child  wanted  to  stop  to  watch  the  pigs 
through  the  chinks  in  the  boards.  But  when  they 
came  to  the  smooth,  wide,  high  roads  overlooking  the 
valley,  she  put  him  down,  and  he  would  run  on  ahead, 
crying,  "Tum  for  a  walk,  Mummie,  tum  along,"  and 
his  little  feet  went  so  quickly  beneath  his  frock  that  it 
seemed  as  if  he  were  on  wheels.  She  followed, 
often  forced  to  break  into  a  run,  tremulous  lest  he 
should  fall.  They  descended  the  hill  into  the  orna- 
mental park,  and  spent  happy  hours  amid  geometrically- 
designed  flower-beds  and  curving  walks.  She  ventured 
with  him  as  far  as  the  old  Dulwich  village,  and  they 
strolled  through  the  long  street.  Behind  the  street 
were  low-lying,  shiftless  fields,  intersected  with  broken 
hedges.  And  when  Jackie  called  to  his  mother  to 
carry  him,  she  rejoiced  in  the  labour  of  his  weight; 
and  when  he  grew  too  heavy,  she  rested  on  the  farm- 
gate,  and  looked  into  the  vague  lowlands.  And  when 
the  chill  of  night  awoke  her  from  her  dream  she 
clasped  Jackie  to  her  bosom  and  turned  towards 
home,  very  soon  to  lose  herself  again  in  another  tide 
of  happiness. 

The  evenings,  too,  were  charming.  When  the  can- 
dles were  lighted,  and  tea  was  on  the  table,  Esther  sat 
with  the  dozing  child  on  her  knee,  looking  into  the 
flickering  fire,  her  mind  a  reverie,  occasionally  broken 
by  the  homely  talk  of  her  companion ;  and  when  the 
baby  was  laid  in  his  cot  she  took  up  her  sewing — she 
was  making  herself  a  new  dress;  or  else  the  great 
kettle  was  steaming  on  the  hob,  and  the  women  stood 


ESTHER     WATERS  217 

over  the  washing-tubs.  On  the  following  evening  they 
worked  on  either  side  of  the  ironing-table,  the  candle 
burning  brightly  and  their  vague  woman's  chatter 
sounding  pleasant  in  the  hush  of  the  little  cottage.  A 
little  after  nine  they  were  in  bed,  and  so  the  days  went 
softly,  like  happy,  trivial  dreams.  It  was  not  till  the 
end  of  the  third  week  that  Mrs.  Lewis  would  hear  of 
Esther  looking  out  for  another  place.  And  then 
Esther  was  surprised  at  her  good  fortune.  A  friend  of 
Mrs.  Lewis's  knew  a  servant  who  was  leaving  her  situa- 
tion in  the  West  End  of  London.  Esther  got  the 
address,  and  went  next  day  after  the  place.  She  was 
fortunate  enough  to  obtain  it,  and  her  mistress  seemed 
well  satisfied  with  her.  But  one  day  in  the  beginning 
of  her  second  year  of  service  she  was  told  that  her  mis- 
tress wished  to  speak  to  her  in  the  dining-room. 

"I  fancy,"  said  the  cook,  "that  it  is  about  that  baby 
of  yours;  they're  very  strict  here." 

-Mlls^Trubner  was  sitting  on  a  low  w4cker  chair  by 
the  fire.  ^She  was  a  large  woman  with  eagle  features. 
Her  eyesight  had  been  failing  for  some  years,  and  her 
maid  was  reading  to  her.  The  maid  closed  the  book 
and  left  the  room. 

"It  has  come  to  my  knowledge.  Waters,  that  you 
have  a  child.  You're  not  a  married  woman,  I  be- 
lieve?" 

"I've  been  unfortunate;  I've  a  child,  but  that  don't 
make  no  difference  so  long  as  I  gives  satisfaction  in  my 
work.  I  don't  think  that  the  cook  has  complained, 
ma'am." 

"No,  the  cook  hasn't  complained,  but  had  I  known 
this  I  don't  think  I  should  have  engaged  )^ou.  In  the 
character   which  you  showed  me,   Mrs.    Barfield  said 


2i8  ESTHER    WATERS 

that  she  believed  you  to  be  a  thoroughly  religious  girl 
at  heart. ' ' 

"And  I  hope  I  am  that,  ma'am.  I'm  truly  sorry  for 
my  fault.     I've  suffered  a  great  deal." 

"So  you  all  say;  but  supposing  it  were  to  happen 
again,  and  in  my  house?     Supposing " 

"Then  don't  you  think,  ma'am,  there  is  repentance 
and  forgiveness?     Our  Lord  said " 

"You  ought  to  have  told  me;  and  as  for  Mrs.  Bar- 
field,  her  conduct  is  most  reprehensible." 

"Then,  ma'am,  would  you  prevent  every  poor  girl 
who  has  had  a  misfortune  from  earning  her  bread?  If 
they  was  all  like  you  there  would  be  more  girls  who'd 
do  away  with  themselves  and  their  babies.  You  don't 
know  how  hard  pressed  we  are.  The  baby-farmer 
says,  'Give  me  five  pounds  and  I'll  find  a  good  woman 
who  wants  a  little  one,  and  you  shall  hear  no  more 
about  it.  *  Them  very  words  were  said  to  me.  I  took 
him  away  and  hoped  to  be  able  to  rear  him,  but  if  I'm 
to  lose  my  situations— — " 

' '  I  should  be  sorry  to  prevent  anyone  from  earning 
their  bread " 

"You're  a  mother  yourself,  ma'am,  and  you  know 
what  it  is." 

"Really,  it's  quite  different.  .  .  .  I  don't  know 
what  you  mean,  Waters." 

"I  mean  that  if  I  am  to  lose  my  situations  on 
account  of  my  baby,  I  don't  know  what  will  become  of 
me.     If  I  give  satisfaction " 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Trubner  entered.  He  was  a 
large,  stout  man,  with  his  mother's  aquiline  features. 
He  arrived  with  his  glasses  on  his  nose,  and  slightly 
out  of  breath. 


ESTHER     WATERS  219 

"Oh,  oh,  I  didn't  know,  mother,"  he  blurted  out, 
and  was  about  to  withdraw  when  Mrs.  Trubner  said — 

*'This  is  the  new  servant  whom  that  lady  in  Sussex 
recommended." 

Esther  saw  a  look  of  instinctive  repulsion  come  over 
his  face. 

"I'll  leave  you  to  settle  with  her,  mother." 

"I  must  speak  to  you,  Harold — I  must." 

"I  really  can't;  I  know  nothing  of  this  matter." 

He  tried  to  leave  the  room,  and  when  his  mother 
stopped  him  he  said  testily,  "Well,  what  is  it?     I  am 

very  busy  just   now,    and "      Mrs.    Trubner    told 

Esther  to  wait  in  the  passage. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Trubner,  "have  you  discharged 
her?     I  leave  all  these  things  to  you." 

"She  has  told  me  her  story ;  she  is  trying  to  bring  up 
her  child  on  her  wages.  .  .  .  She  said  if  she  was 
kept  from  earning  her  bread  she  didn't  know  what 
would  become  of  her.  Her  position  is  a  very  terrible 
one." 

"I  know  that.  .  .  .  But  we  can't  have  loose 
women  about  the  place.  They  all  can  tell  a  fine  story; 
the  world  is  full  of  impostors. ' ' 

"I  don't  think  the  girl  is  an  impostor." 

"Very  likely  not,  but  everyone  has  a  right  to  protect 
themselves." 

"Don't  speak  so  loud,  Harold,"  said  Mrs.  Trubner, 
lowering  her  voice.  "Remember  her  child  is  depend- 
ent upon  her;  if  we  send  her  away  w^e  don't  know 
what  may  happen.  I'll  pay  her  a  month's  wages  if 
you  like,  but  you  must  take  the  responsibility. ' ' 

"I  won't  take  any  responsibility  in  the  matter.  If 
she  had  been  here  two  years — she  has  only  been  here 


220  ESTHER     WATERS 

a  year — not  so  much  more — and  had  proved  a  satisfac- 
tory servant,  I  don't  say  that  we'd  be  justified  in  send- 
ing her  away.  .  .  .  There  are  plenty  of  good  girls 
who  want  a  situation  as  much  as  she.  I  don't  see  why 
we  should  harbour  loose  women  when  there  are  so 
many  deserving  cases." 

"Then  you  want  me  to  send  her  away?" 

"I  don't  want  to  interfere;  you  ought  to  know  how 
to  act.  Supposing  the  same  thing  were  to  happen 
again?  My  cousins,  young  men,  coming  to  the 
house " 

"But  she  won't  see  them." 

"Do  as  you  like;  it  is  your  business,  not  mine.  It 
doesn't  matter  to  me,  so  long  as  I'm  not  interfered 
with ;  keep  her  if  you  like.  You  ought  to  have  looked 
into  her  character  more  closely  before  you  engaged 
her.  I  think  that  the  lady  who  recommended  her 
ought  to  be  written  to  very  sharply." 

They  had  forgotten  to  close  the  door,  and  Esther 
stood  in  the  passage  burning  and  choking  with  shame. 

"It  is  a  strange  thing  that  religion  should  make 
some  people  so  unfeeling,"  Esther  thought  as  she  left 
Onslow  Square. 

It  was  necessary  to  keep  her  child  secret,  and  in  her 
next  situation  she  shunned  intimacy  with  her  fellow- 
servants,  and  was  so  strict  in  her  conduct  that  she 
exposed  herself  to  their  sneers.  She  dreaded  the 
remark  that  she  always  went  out  alone,  and  often 
arrived  at  the  cottage  breathless  with  fear  and  expec- 
tation— at  a  cottage  where  a  little  boy  stood  by  a  stout 
middle-aged  woman,  turning  over  the  pages  of  the 
illustrated  papers  that  his  mother  had  brought  him; 
she  had  no  money  to  buy  him  toys.      Dropping  the 


ESTHER     WATERS  221 

Illustrated  London  News,  he  cried,  "Here  is  Mum- 
mie,"  and  ran  to  her  with  outstretched  arms.  Ah, 
what  an  embrace !  Mrs.  Lewis  continued  her  sewing, 
and  for  an  hour  or  more  Esther  told  about  her  fellow- 
servants,  about  the  people  she  lived  with,  the  conver- 
sation interrupted  by  the  child  calling  his  mother's 
attention  to  the  pictures,  or  by  the  delicate  intrusion 
of  his  little  hand  into  hers. 

Her  clothes  were  her  great  difficulty,  and  she  often 
thought  that  she  would  rather  go  back  to  the  slavery 
of  the  house  in  Chelsea  than  bear  the  humiliation  of 
going  out  any  longer  on  Sunday  in  the  old  things  that 
the  servants  had  seen  her  in  for  eight  or  nine  months 
or  more.  She  was  made  to  feel  that  she  was  the  low- 
est of  the  lov/ — the  servant  of  servants.  She  had  to 
accept  everybody's  sneer  and  everybody's  bad  lan- 
guage, and  oftentimes  gross  familiarity,  in  order  to 
avoid  arguments  and  disputes  which  might  endanger 
her  situation.  She  had  to  shut  her  eyes  to  the  thefts 
of  cooks ;  she  had  to  fetch  them  drink,  and  to  do  their 
work  when  they  were  unable  to  do  it  themselves.  But 
there  w^as  no  help  for  it.  She  could  not  pick  and 
choose  where  she  would  live,  and  any  wages  above  six- 
teen pound  a  year  she  must  always  accept,  and  put  up 
with  whatever  inconvenience  she  might  meet. 

Hers  is  an  heroic  adventure  if  one  considers  it — a 
mother's  fight  for  the  life  of  her  child  against  all  the 
forces  that  civilisation  arrays  against  the  lowly  and  the 
illegitimate.  She  is  in  a  situation  to-day,  but  on  what 
security  does  she  hold  it?  She  is  strangely  dependent 
on  her  own  health,  and  still  more  upon  the  fortunes 
and  the  personal  caprice  of  her  employers;  and  she 
realised  the  perils  of  her  life  when  an  outcast  mother 


J 


222  ESTHER     WATERS 

I  at  the  comer  of  the  street,  stretching  out  of  her  rags  a 
1  brown  hand  and  arm,  asked  alms  for  the  sake  of  the 
I  little  children.  Esther  remembered  then  that  three 
V  months  out  of  a  situation  and  she  too  would  be  on  the 

[street  as  a  flower-seller,  match-seller,  or 

y  It  did  not  seem,  however,  that  any  of  these  fears 
''  were  to  be  realised.  Her  luck  had  mended;  for  nearly 
two  years  she  had  been  living  with  some  rich  people 
in  the  West  End;  she  liked  her  mistress  and  was  on 
good  terms  with  her  fellow  servants,  and  had  it  not 
been  for  an  accident  she  could  have  kept  this  situation. 
The  young  gentlemen  had  come  home  for  their  sum- 
mer holidays;  she  had  stepped  aside  to  let  Master 
Harry  pass  her  on  the  stairs.  But  he  did  not  go  by, 
and  there  was  a  strange  smile  on  his  face. 

"Look  here,  Esther,  I'm  awfully  fond  of  you.  You 
are  the  prettiest  girl  I've  ever  seen.  Come  out  for  a 
walk  with  me  next  Sunday." 

"Master  Harry,  I'm  surprised  at  you;  will  you  let 
me  go  by  at  once?" 

There  was  no  one  near,  the  house  was  silent,  and  the 
boy  stood  on  the  step  above  her.  He  tried  to  throw 
his  arm  round  her  waist,  but  she  shook  him  off  and 
went  up  to  her  room  calm  with  indignation.  A  few 
days  afterward  she  suddenly  became  aware  that  he  was 
following  her  in  the  street.  She  turned  sharply  upon 
him. 

"Master  Harry,  I  know  that  this  is  only  a  little  fool- 
ishness on  your  part,  but  if  you  don't  leave  off  I  shall 
lose  my  situation,  and  I'm  sure  you  don't  want  to  do 
me  an  injury." 

Master  Harry  seemed  sorry,  and  he  promised  not  to 
follow  her  in  the  street  again.     And  never  thinking 


ESTHER     WATERS  223 

that  it  was  he  who  had  written  the  letter  she  received 
a  few  days  after,  she  asked  Annie,  the  tipper  house- 
maid, to  read  it.  It  contained  reference  to  meetings 
and  unalterable  affection,  and  it  concluded  with  a 
promise  to  marry  her  if  she  lost  her  situation  through 
his  fault.  Esther  listened  like  one  stunned.  A  school- 
boy's folly,  the  first  silly  sentimentality  of  a  boy,  a 
thing  lighter  than  the  lightest  leaf  that  falls,  had 
brought  disaster  upon  her. 

If  Annie  had  not  seen  the  letter  she  might  have 
been  able  to  get  the  boy  to  listen  to  reason;  but 
Annie  had  seen  the  letter,  and  Annie  could  not  be 
trusted.  The  story  w^ould  be  sure  to  come  out,  and 
then  she  would  lose  her  character  as  well  as  her  situa- 
tion. It  was  a  great  pity.  Her  mistress  had  promised 
to  have  her  taught  cooking  at  South  Kensington,  and 
a  cook's  wages  would  secure  her  and  her  child  against 
all  ordinary  accidents.  She  w^ould  never  get  such  a 
chance  again,  and  would  remain  a  kitchen-maid  to  the 
end  of  her  days.  And  acting  on  the  impulse  of  the 
moment  she  went  straight  to  the  drawing-room.  Her 
mistress  was  alone,  and  Esther  handed  her  the  letter. 
"I  thought  you  had  better  see  this  at  once,  ma'am.  I 
did  not  want  you  to  think  it  was  my  fault.  Of  course 
the  young  gentleman  means  no  harm." 

"Has  anyone  seen  this  letter?" 

"I  showed  it  to  Annie.  I'm  no  scholar  myself,  and 
the  writing  was  difficult." 

"You  have  no  reason  for  supposing How  often 

did  Master  Harr}"  speak  to  you  in  this  way?" 

"Only  twice,  ma'am." 

"Of  course  it  is  only  a  little  foolishness.     I  needn't 
say  that  he  doesn't  mean  what  he  says. " 
9 


224  ESTHER    WATERS 

*'I  told  him,  ma'am,  that  if  he  continued  I  should 
lose  my  situation." 

'*Pm  sorry  to  part  with  you,  Esther,  but  I  really 
think  that  the  best  way  will  be  for  you  to  leave.  I  am 
much  obliged  to  you  for  showing  me  this  letter. 
Master  Harry,  you  see,  says  that  he  is  going  away  to 
the  country  for  a  week.  He  left  this  morning.  So  I 
really  think  that  a  month's  wages  will  settle  matters 
nicely.  You  are  an  excellent  servant,  and  I  shall  be 
glad  to  recommend  you." 

Then  Esther  heard  her  mistress  mutter  something 
about  the  danger  of  good-looking  servants.  And 
Esther  was  paid  a  month's  wages,  and  left  that  after- 
noon. 


XXI. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  August,  and  London  yawned 
in  every  street;  the  dust  blew  unslaked,  and  a  little 
cloud  curled  and  disappeared  over  the  crest  of  the  hill 
at  Hyde  Park  Corner;  the  streets  and  St.  George's 
Place  looked  out  with  blind,  white  eyes ;  and  in  the 
deserted  Park  the  trees  tossed  their  foliage  restlessly, 
as  if  they  wearied  and  missed  the  fashion  of  their 
season.  And  all  through  Park  Lane  and  Mayfair, 
caretakers  and  gaunt  cats  were  the  traces  that  the  caste 
on  which  Esther  depended  had  left  of  its  departed  pres- 
ence. She  was  coming  from  the  Alexandra  Hotel, 
where  she  had  heard  a  kitchen-maid  was  wanted. 
['Mrs.  Lewis  had  urged  her  to  wait  until  people  began 
to^^come  Ijack  to  town.  Good  situations  were  rarely 
obtainable  in  the  summer  months;  it  would  be  bad 
policy  to  take  a  bad  one,  even  if  it  were  only  for  a 
while.  Besides,  she  had  saved  a  little  money,  and, 
feeling  that  she  required  a  rest,  had  determined  to  take 
this  advice.  But  as  luck  would  have  it  Jackie  fell  ill 
before  she  had  been  at  Dulwich  a  week.  His  illness 
made  a  big  hole  in  her  savings,  and  it  had  become  evi- 
dent that  she  would  have  to  set  to  work  and  at  once. 

She  turned  into  the  park.  She  was  going  north,  to 
a  registry  office  near  Oxford  Street,  which  Mrs.  Lewis 
had  recommended.  Holborn  Row  was  difficult  to 
find,  and  she  had  to  ask  the  way  very  often,  but  she 
suddenly  knew  that  she  was  in  the  right  street  by  the 

225 


226  ESTHER    WATERS 

number  of  servant-girls  going  and  coming  from  the 
office,  and  in  company  with  five  others  Esther 
ascended  a  gloomy  little  staircase.  The  office  was  on 
the  first  floor.  The  doors  were  open,  and  they  passed 
into  a  special  odour  of  poverty,  as  it  were,  into  an 
atmosphere  of  mean  interests. 

Benches  covered  with  red  plush  were  on  either  side, 
and  these  were  occupied  by  fifteen  or  twenty  poorly- 
dressed  women.  A  little  old  woman,  very  white  and 
pale,  stood  near  the  window  recounting  her  misfor- 
tunes to  no  one  in  particular. 

*'I  lived  with  her  more  than  thirty  years;  I  brought 
up  all  the  children.  I  entered  her  service  as  nurse, 
and  when  the  children  grew  up  I  was  given  the  man- 
agement of  everything.  For  the  last  fifteen  years  my 
mistress  was  a  confirmed  invalid.  She  entrusted 
everything  to  me.  Oftentimes  she  took  my  hand  and 
said,  'You  are  a  good  creature,  Holmes,  you  mustn't 
think  of  leaving  me ;  how  should  I  get  on  without  you?' 
But  when  she  died  they  had  to  part  with  me;  they 
said  they  were  very  sorry,  and  wouldn't  have  thought 
of  doing  so,  only  they  were  afraid  I  was  getting  too 
old  for  the  work.  I  daresay  I  was  wrong  to  stop  so 
long  in  one  situation.  I  shouldn't  have  done  so,  but 
she  always  used  to  say,  'You  mustn't  leave  us;  we 
never  shall  be  able  to  get  on  without  you. '  ' ' 

At  that  moment  the  secretary,  an  alert  young  woman 
with  a  decisive  voice,  came  through  the  folding  doors. 

*'I  will  not  have  all  this  talking,"  she  said.  Her 
quick  eyes  fell  on  the  little  old  woman,  and  she  came 
forward  a  few  steps.  "What,  you  here  again.  Miss 
Holmes?  I've  told  you  that  when  I  hear  of  anything 
that  will  suit  you  I'll  write.*' 


ESTHER    WATERS  227 

*'So  you  said,  Miss,  but  my  little  savings  are  running 
short.     I'm  being  pressed  for  my  rent. " 

"I  can't  help  that;  when  I  hear  of  anything  I'll 
write.  But  I  can't  have  you  coming  here  every  third 
day  wasting  my  time;  now  run  along."  And  having 
made  casual  remarks  about  the  absurdity  of  people  of 
that  age  coming  after  situations,  she  called  three  or 
four  women  to  her  desk,  of  whom  Esther  was  one. 
She  examined  them  critically,  and  seemed  especially 
satisfied  with  Esther's  appearance. 

"It  will  be  difficult,"  she  said,  "to  find  you  the  situ- 
ation you  want  before  people  begin  to  return  to  town. 
If  you  were  only  an  inch  or  two  taller  I  could  get  you 
a  dozen  places  as  housemaid ;  tall  servants  are  all  the 
fashion,  and  you  are  the  right  age — about  five-and- 
twenty." 

Esther  left  a  dozen  stamps  with  her,  and  soon  after 
she  began  to  receive  letters  containing  the  addresses  of 
ladies  who  required  servants.  They  were  of  all  sorts, 
for  the  secretary  seemed  to  exercise  hardly  any  dis- 
crimination, and  Esther  was  sent  on  long  journeys 
from  Brixton  to  Notting  Hill  to  visit  poor  people  who 
could  hardly  afford  a  maid-of -all-work.  These  useless 
journeys  were  very  fatiguing.  Sometimes  she  was 
asked  to  call  at  a  house  in  Bayswater,  and  thence  she 
had  to  go  to  High  Street,  Kensington,  or  Earl's  Court; 
a  third  address  might  be  in  Chelsea.  She  could  only 
guess  which  was  the  best  chance,  and  while  she  was 
hesitating  the  situation  might  be  given  away.  Very 
often  the  ladies  were  out,  and  she  was  asked  to  call 
later  in  the  day.  These  casual  hours  she  spent  in  the 
parks,  mending  Jackie's  socks  or  hemming  pocket 
handkerchiefs,  so  she  was  frequently  delayed  till  even- 


228  ESTHER    WATERS 

ing ;  and  in  the  mildness  of  the  summer  twilight,  with 
some  fresh  disappointment  lying  heavy  on  her  heart, 
she  made  her  way  from  the  Marble  Arch  round  the 
barren  Serpentine  into  Piccadilly,  with  its  stream  of 
light  beginning  in  the  sunset. 
'^  And  standing  at  the  kerb  of  Piccadilly  Circus,  wait- 
ing for  a  'bus  to  take  her  to  Ludgate  Hill  Station,  the 
girl  grew  conscious  of  the  moving  multitude  that  filled 
the  streets.  The  great  restaurants  rose  up  calm  and 
violet  in  the  evening  sky,  the  Cafe  Monico,  with  its  air 
of  French  newspapers  and  Italian  wines;  and  before 
the  grey  fa9ade  of  the  fashionable  Criterion  hansoms 
stopped  and  dinner  parties  walked  across  the  pave- 
ment. The  fine  weather  had  brought  the  women  up 
earlier  than  usual  from  the  suburbs.  They  came  up 
the  long  road  from  Fulham,  with  white  dresses  floating 
from  their  hips,  and  feather  boas  waving  a  few  inches 
.  from  the  pavement.  But  through  this  elegant  disguise 
Esther  could  pick  out  the  servant-girls.  Their  stories 
were  her  story.  They  had  been  deserted,  as  she  had 
been ;  and  perhaps  each  had  a  child  to  support,  only 
they  had  not  been  so  lucky  as  she  had  been  in  finding 
situations. 

•^But  now  luck  seemed  to  have  deserted  her.  It  was 
the  middle  of  September  and  she  had  not  yet  been  able 
to  find  the  situation  she  wanted;  audit  had  become 
more  and  more  distressing  to  her  to  refuse  sixteen 
pound  a  year.  She  had  calculated  it  all  out,  and  noth- 
ing less  than  eighteen  pound  was  of  any  use  to  her. 
With  eighteen  pound  and  a  kind  mistress  who  would 
give  her  an  old  dress  occasionally  she  could  do  very 
well.  But  if  she  didn't  find  these  two  pound  she  did 
not  know  what  she  should  do.     She  might  drag  on  for 


ESTHER     WATERS  229 

a  time  on  sixteen  pound,  but  such  wages  would  drive 
her  in  the  end  into  the  workhouse.  If  it  were  not  for 
the  child!  But  she  would  never  desert  her  darling 
boy,  who  loved  her  so  dearly,  come  what  might.  A 
sudden  imagination  let  her  see  him  playing  in  the 
little  street,  waiting  for  her  to  come  home,  and  her 
love  for  him  went  to  her  head  like  madness.  She  ; 
wondered  at  herself;  it  seemed  almost  unnatural  to  ,  1 
love  anything  as  she  did  this  child. 

Then,  in  a  shiver  of  fear,  determined  to  save  her 
'bus  fare,  she  made  her  way  through  Leicester  Square. 
She  was  a  good-looking  girl,  who  hastened  her  steps 
when  addressed  by  a  passer-by  or  crossed  the  roadway 
in  sullen  indignation,  and  who  looked  in  contempt  on 
the  silks  and  satins  which  turned  into  the  Empire, 
and  she  seemed  to  lose  heart  utterly.  She  had  been 
walking  all  day  and  had  not  tasted  food  since  the  morn- 
ing, and  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  brought  a  sudden 
weakness  of  the  spirit.  She  felt  that  she  could  strug- 
gle no  more,  that  the  whole  world  was  against  her —  ' 
she  felt  that  she  must  have  food  and  drink  and  rest. 
All  this  London  tempted  her,  and  the  cup  was  at  her 
lips.  A  young  man  in  evening  clothes  had  spoken  to 
her.  His  voice  was  soft,  the  look  in  his  eyes  seemed 
kindly. 

Thinking  of  the  circumstances  ten  minutes  later  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  intended  to  answer  him. 
But  she  was  now  at  Charing  Cross.  There  was  a 
lightness,  an  emptiness  in  her  head  which  she  could 
not  overcome,  and  the  crowd  appeared  to  her  like  a 
blurred,  noisy  dream.  And  then  the  dizziness  left  her, 
and  she  realised  the  temptation  she  had  escaped. 
Here,  as  in  Piccadilly,  she  could  pick  out  the  servant- 


230  ESTHER     WATERS 

girls;  but  here  their  service  was  yesterday's  lodging- 
house — poor  and  dissipated  girls,  dressed  in  vague 
clothes  fixed  with  hazardous  pins.  Two  young  women 
strolled  in  front  of  her.  They  hung  on  each  other's 
arms,  talking  lazily.  They  had  just  come  out  of  an 
eating-house,  and  a  happy  digestion  was  in  their  eyes. 
The  skirt  on  the  outside  was  a  soiled  mauve,  and  the 
bodice  that  went  with  it  was  a  soiled  chocolate.  A 
broken  yellow  plume  hung  out  of  a  battered  hat.  The 
skirt  on  the  inside  was  a  dim  green,  and  little  was  left 
of  the  cotton  velvet  jacket  but  the  cotton.  A  girl  of 
sixteen  walking  sturdily,  like  a  little  man,  crossed  the 
road,  her  left  hand  thrust  deep  into  the  pocket  of  her 
red  cashmere  dress.  She  wore  on  her  shoulders  a  strip 
of  beaded  mantle ;  her  hair  was  plaited  and  tied  with  a 
red  ribbon.  Corpulent  women  passed,  their  eyes 
liquid  with  invitation;  and  the  huge  bar-loafer,  the 
man  of  fifty,  the  hooked  nose  and  the  waxed  mous- 
tache, stood  at  the  door  of  a  restaurant,  passing  the 
women  in  review. 

A  true  London  of  the  water's  edge — a  London  of 
theatres,  music-halls,  wine-shops,  public-houses — the 
walls  painted  various  colours,  nailed  over  with  huge 
gold  lettering ;  the  pale  air  woven  with  delicate  wire, 
a  gossamer  web  underneath  which  the  crowd  moved 
like  lazy  flies,  one  half  watching  the  perforated  spire 
of  St.  Mary's,  and  all  the  City  spires  behind  it  now 
growing  cold  in  the  east,  the  other  half  seeing  the 
spire  of  St.  Martin's  above  the  chimney-pots  aloft  in  a 
sky  of  cream  pink.  Stalwart  policemen  urged  along 
groups  of  slattern  boys  and  girls;  and  after  vulgar 
remonstrance  these  took  the  hint  and  disappeared 
down  strange  passages.     Suddenly  Esther  came  face 


ESTHER     WATERS  231 

to  face  with  a  woman  whom  she  recogpiised  as  Mar- 
garet Gale.  *^"^" 

"What,  is  it  you,  Margaret?" 

"Yes,  it  is  me  all  right.  What  are  you  doing  up 
here?  Got  tired  of  service?  Come  and  have  a  drink, 
old  gal. ' ' 

"No,  thank  you;  I'm  glad  to  have  seen  you,  Mar- 
garet, but  I've  a  train  to  catch." 

"That  won't  do,"  said  Margaret,  catching  her  by  the 
arm ;  "we  must  have  a  drink  and  a  talk  over  old  times.  " 

Esther  felt  that  if  she  did  not  have  something  she 
would  faint  before  she  reached  Ludgate  Hill,  and  Mar- 
garet led  the  way  through  the  public-house,  opening 
all  the  varnished  doors,  seeking  a  quiet  corner. 
"What's  the  matter?"  she  said,  startled  at  the  pallor  of 
Esther's  face. 

"Only  a  little  faintness;  I've  not  had  anything  to 
eat  all  day. " 

"Quick,  quick,  four  of  brandy  and  some  water," 
Margaret  cried  to  the  barman,  and  a  moment  after  she 
was  holding  the  glass  to  her  friend's  lips.  "Not  had 
anything  to  eat  all  day,  dear?  Then  we'll  have  a  bite 
and  a  sup  together.  I  feel  a  bit  peckish  myself.  Two 
sausages  and  two  rolls  and  butter, ' '  she  cried.  Then 
the  women  had  a  long  talk.  Margaret  told  Esther  the 
story  of  her  misfortune.  The  Barfields  were  all  broken 
up.  They  had  been  very  unlucky  racing,  and  when 
the  servants  got  the  sack  Margaret  had  come  up  to 
London.  She  had  been  in  several  situations.  Even- 
tually, one  of  her  masters  had  got  her  into  trouble,  his 
wife  had  turned  her  out  neck  and  crop,  and  what  was 
she  to  do?  Then  Esther  told  how  Master  Harry  had 
lost  her  her  situation. 


232  ES  THER     WA  TERS 

*'And  you  left  like  that?  Well  I  never!  The  better 
one  behaves  the  worse  one  gets  treated,  and  them  that 
goes  on  with  service  find  themselves  in  the  end  with- 
out as  much  as  will  buy  them  a  Sunday  dinner. 

Margaret  insisted  on  accompanying  Esther,  and 
they  walked  together  as  far  as  Wellington  Street.  "I 
can't  go  any  further,"  and  pointing  to  where  London 
seemed  to  end  in  a  piece  of  desolate  sky,  she  said,  "I 
live  on  the  other  side,  in  Stamford  Street.  You  might 
come  and  see  me.  If  you  ever  get  tired  of  service 
you'll  get  decent  rooms  there." 

Bad  weather  followed  fine,  and  under  a  streaming 
umbrella  Esther  went  from  one  address  to  another,  her 
damp  skirts  clinging  about  her  and  her  boots  clogged 
with  mud.  She  looked  upon  the  change  in  the  weather 
as  unfortunate,  for  in  getting  a  situation  so  much 
depended  on  personal  appearance  and  cheerfulness  of 
manner;  and  it  is  difficult  to  seem  a  right  and  tidy  girl 
aft^  two  miles'  walk  through  the  rain. 

One  lady  told  Esther  that  she  liked  tall  servants, 
another  said  she  never  engaged  good-looking  girls,  and 
another  place  that  would  have  suited  her  was  lost 
through  unconsciously  answering  that  she  was  chapel. 
The  lady  would  have  nothing  in  her  house  but  church. 
Then  there  were  the  disappointments  occasioned  by 
the  letters  which  she  received  from  people  who  she 
thought  would  have  engaged  her,  saying  they  were 
sorry,  but  that  they  had  seen  some  one  whom  they 
liked  better. 

Another  week  passed  and  Esther  had  to  pawn  her 
clothes  to  get  money  for  her  train  fare  to  London,  and 
to  keep  the  registry  office  supplied  with  stamps.  Her 
prospects  had  begun  to  seem  quite  hopeless,  and  she 


ESTHER    WATERS  233 

lay  awake  thinking  that  she  and  Jackie  must  go  back 
to  the  workhouse.  They  could  not  stop  on  at  Mrs. 
Lewis's  much  longer.  Mrs.  Lewis  had  been  very  good 
to  them,  but  Esther  owed  her  two  weeks'  money. 
What  was  to  be  done?  She  had  heard  of  charitable 
institutions,  but  she  was  an  ignorant  girl  and  did  not 
know  how  to  make  the  necessary  inquiries.  Oh,  the 
want  of  a  little  money — of  a  very  little  money;  the 
thought  beat  into  her  brain.  For  just  enough  to  hold 
on  till  the  people  came  back  to  town. 

One  day  Mrs.  Lewis,  who  read  the  newspapers  for 
her,  came  to  her  with  an  advertisement  which  she  said 
seemed  to  read  like  a  very  likely  chance.  Esther 
looked  at  the  pence  which  remained  out  of  the  last 
dress  that  she  had  pawned. 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  said,  "it  will  turn  out  like  the 
others;  I'm  out  of  my  luck." 

"Don't  say  that,"  said  Mrs.  Lewis;  "keep  your 
courage  up;  I'll  stick  to  you  as  long  as  I  can." 

The  women  had  a  good  cry  in  each  other's  arms,  and 
then  Mrs.  Lewis  advised  Esther  to  take  the  situation, 
even  if  it  were  no  more  than  sixteen.  "A  lot  can  be 
done  by  constant  saving,  and  if  she  gives  yer  'er 
dresses  and  ten  shillings  for  a  Christmas-box,  I  don't 
see  why  you  should  not  pull  through.  The  baby  shan't 
cost  you  more  than  five  shillings  a  week  till  you  get  a 
situation  as  plain  cook.  Here  is  the  address — Miss 
Rice,  Avondale  Road,  West  Kensington. ' ' 


XXII. 

Avondale  Road  was  an  obscure  corner  of  the  suburb 
— obscure,  for  it  had  just  sprung  into  existence.  The 
scaffolding  that  had  built  it  now  littered  an  adjoining 
field,  where  in  a  few  months  it  would  rise  about 
Horsely  Gardens,  whose  red  gables  and  tiled  upper 
walls  will  correspond  unfailingly  with  those  of  Avon- 
dale  Road.  Nowhere  in  this  neighbourhood  could 
Esther  detect  signs  of  eighteen  pounds  a  year.  Scan- 
ning the  Venetian  blinds  of  the  single  drawing-room 
window,  she  said  to  herself,  "Hot  joint  to-day,  cold  the 
next."  She  noted  the  trim  iron  railings  and  the  spare 
shrubs,  and  raising  her  eyes  she  saw  the  tiny  gable 
windows  of  the  cupboard-like  rooms  where  the  single 
servant  kept  in  these  houses  slept. 

A  few  steps  more  brought  her  to  41,  the  comer  house. 
The  thin  passage  and  the  meagre  staircase  confirmed 
Esther  in  the  impression  she  had  received  from  the 
aspect  of  the  street ;  and  she  felt  that  the  place  was 
more  suitable  to  the  gaunt  woman  with  iron-grey  hair 
who  waited  in  the  passage.  This  woman  looked  appre- 
hensively at  Esther,  and  when  Esther  said  that  she 
had  come  after  the  place  a  painful  change  of  expres- 
sion passed  over  her  face,  and  she  said — 

*' You'll  get  it;  I'm  too  old  for  anything  but  char- 
ing.    How  much  are  you  going  to  ask?" 

*'I  can't  take  less  than  sixteen." 

*' Sixteen!      I  used  to  get  that  once;    I'd  be  glad 

234 


ESTHER    WATERS  235 

enough  to  get  twelve  now.  You  can't  think  of  sixteen 
once  you've  turned  forty,  and  I've  lost  my  teeth,  and 
they  means  a  couple  of  pound  off." 

Then  the  door  opened,  and  a  woman's  voice  called 
to  the  gaunt  woman  to  come  in.  She  went  in,  and 
Esther  breathed  a  prayer  that  she  might  not  be 
engaged.  A  minute  intervened,  and  the  gaunt  woman 
came  out ;  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  she  whis- 
pered to  Esther  as  she  passed,  "No  good;  I  told  you 
so.  I'm  too  old  for  anything  but  charing."  The 
abruptness  of  the  interview  suggested  a  hard  mistress, 
and  Esther  was  surprised  to  find  herself  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  slim  lady,  about  seven-and-thirty,  whose 
small  grey  eyes  seemed  to  express  a  kind  and  gentle 
nature.  As  she  stood  speaking  to  her,  Esther  saw  a 
tall  glass  filled  with  chrysanthemums  and  a  large  writ- 
ing-table covered  with  books  and  papers.  There  was 
a  bookcase,  and  in  place  of  the  usual  folding-doors,  a 
bead  curtain  hung  between  the  rooms. 

The  room  almost  said  that  the  occupant  was  a  spin- 
ster and  a  writer,  and  Esther  remembered  that  she  had 
noticed  even  at  the  time  Miss  Rice's  manuscript,  it  was 
such  a  beautiful  clear  round  hand,  and  it  lay  on  the 
table,  ready  to  be  continued  the  moment  she  should 
have  settled  with  her. 

**I  saw  your  advertisement  in  the  paper,  miss;  I've 
come  after  the  situation." 

"You  are  used  to  service?" 

"Yes,  miss,  I've  had  several  situations  in  gen- 
tlemen's families,  and  have  excellent  characters 
from  them  all."  Then  Esther  related  the  story  of 
her  situations,  and  Miss  Rice  put  up  her  glasses  and 
her  grey  eyes  smiled.     She  seemed  pleased  with  the 


2s6  ESTHER    WATERS. 

somewhat  rugged  but  pleasant-featured  girl  before 
her. 

"I  live  alone,"  she  said;  "the  place  is  an  easy  one, 
and  if  the  wages  satisfy  you,  I  think  you  will  suit  me 
very  well.  My  servant,  who  has  been  with  me  some 
years,  is  leaving  me  to  be  married. ' ' 

"What  are  the  wages,  miss?" 

"Fourteen  pounds  a  year." 

"I'm  afraid,  miss,  there  would  be  no  use  my  taking 
the  place;  I've  so  many  calls  on  my  money  that  I 
could  not  manage  on  fourteen  pounds.  I'm  very 
sorry,  for  I  feel  sure  I  should  like  to  live  with  you, 
miss." 

But  what  was  the  good  of  taking  the  place?  She 
could  not  possibly  manage  on  fourteen,  even  if  Miss 
Rice  did  give  her  a  dress  occasionally,  and  that  didn't 
look  likely.  All  her  strength  seemed  to  give  way 
under  her  misfortune,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that 
she  restrained  her  tears. 

"I  think  we  should  suit  each  other,"  Miss  Rice  said 
refiectivel3^  "I  should  like  to  have  you  for  my  serv- 
ant if  I  could  afford  it.     How  much  would  you  take?" 

"Situated  as  I  am,  miss,  I  could  not  take  less  than 
sixteen.     I've  been  used  to  eighteen." 

"Sixteen  pounds  is  more  than  I  can  afford,  but  I'll 
think  it  over.     Give  me  your  name  and  address." 

"Esther  Waters,  13  Poplar  Road,  Dulwich." 

As  Esther  turned  to  go  she  became  aware  of  the 
kindness  of  the  eyes  that  looked  at  her.  Miss  Rice 
said — 

"I'm  afraid  you're  in  trouble.  ...  Sit  down; 
tell  me  about  it." 

"No,  miss,  what's  the  use?"     But  Miss  Rice  looked 


ESTHER     WATERS  237 

at  her  so  kindly  that  Esther  could  not  rCvStrain  herself. 
''There's  nothing  for  it,"  she  said,  "but  to  go  back  to 
the  workhouse. ' ' 

"But  why  should  you  go  to  the  workhouse?  I  offer 
you  fourteen  pounds  a  year  and  everything  found. 

"You  see,  miss,  I've  a  baby;  we've  been  in  the 
workhouse  already ;  I  had  to  go  there  the  night  I  left 
my  situation  to  get  him  away  from  Mrs.  Spires ;  she 
wanted  to  kill  him;  she'd  have  done  it  for  five  pounds 
— that's  the  price.  But,  miss,  my  story  is  not  one  that 
can  be  told  to  a  lady  such  as  you." 

"I  think  I'm  old  enough  to  listen  to  your  story;  sit 
down,  and  tell  it  to  me." 

And  all  the  while  Miss  Rice's  eyes  were  filled  with 
tenderness  and  pity. 

"A  very  sad  story — just  such  a  story  as  happens 
every  day.  But  you  have  been  punished,  you  have 
indeed." 

"Yes,  miss,  I  think  I  have;  and  after  all  these  years 
of  striving  it  is  hard  to  have  to  take  him  back  to  the 
workhouse.  Not  that  I  want  to  give  out  that  I  was 
badly  treated  there,  but  it  is  the  child  I'm  thinking  of. 
He  was  then  a  little  baby  and  it  didn't  matter;  we  was 
only  there  a  few  months.  There's  no  one  that  knows 
of  it  but  me.  But  he's  a  growing  boy  now,  he'll 
remember  the  workhouse,  and  it  will  be  always  a  dis- 
grace. ' ' 

"How  old  is  he?" 

"He  was  six  last  May,  miss.  It  has  been  a  hard  job 
to  bring  him  up.  I  now  pay  six  shillings  a  week  for 
him,  that's  more  than  fourteen  pounds  a  year,  and  you 
can't  do  much  in  the  way  of  clothes  on  two  pounds  a 
year.      And  now  that  he's  growing  up  he's   costing 


238  ESTHER     WATERS 

more  than  ever;  but  Mrs.  Lewis — that's  the  woman 
what  has  brought  him  up — is  as  fond  of  him  as  I  am 
myself.  She  don't  want  to  make  nothing  out  of  his 
keep,  and  that's  how  I've  managed  up  to  the  present. 
But  I  see  well  enough  that  it  can't  be  done;  his 
expense  increases,  and  the  wages  remains  the  same. 
It  was  my  pride  to  bring  him  up  on  my  earnings,  and 
my  hope  to  see  him  an  honest  man  earning  good 
money.  But  it  wasn't  to  be,  miss,  it  wasn't  to  be. 
We  must  be  humble  and  go  back  to  the  workhouse. ' ' 
*'I  can  see  that  it  has  been  a  hard  fight." 
**It  has  indeed,  miss;  no  one  will  ever  know  how 
hard.  I  shouldn't  mind  if  it  wasn't  going  to  end  by 
going  back  to  where  it  started.  .  .  .  They'll  take 
him  from  me ;  I  shall  never  see  him  while  he  is  there. 
I  wish  I  was  dead,  miss,  I  can't  bear  my  trouble  no 
longer. ' ' 

"You  shan't  go  back  to  the  workhouse  so  long  as  I 
can  help  you.  Esther,  I'll  give  you  the  wages  you  ask 
for.  It  is  more  than  I  can  afford.  Eighteen  pounds  a 
year!  But  your  child  shall  not  be  taken  from  ^'you. 
You  shall  not  go  to  the  workhouse.  There  aren't 
many  such  good  women  in  the  world  as  you,  Esther. ' ' 


XXIII. 

From  the  first  Miss  Rice  was  interested  in  her  serv- 
ant, and  encouraged  her  confidences.  But  it  was  some 
time  before  either  was  able  to  put  aside  her  natural 
reserve.  They  were  not  unlike — quiet,  instinctive 
Englishwomen,  strong,  warm  natures,  under  an 
appearance  of  formality  and  reserve. 

The  instincts  of  the  watch-dog  soon  began  to 
develop  in  Esther,  and  she  extended  her  supervision 
over  all  the  household  expenses,  likewise  over  her 
mistress's  health. 

"Now,  miss,  I  must  'ave  you  take  your  soup  while  it 
is  'ot.  You'd  better  put  away  your  writing;  you've 
been  at  it  all  the  morning.  You'll  make  yourself  ill, 
and  then  I  shall  have  the  nursing  of  you."  If  Miss 
Rice  were  going  out  in  the  evening  she  would  find 
herself  stopped  in  the  passage.  "Now,  miss,  I  really 
can't  see  you  go  out  like  that;  you'll  catch  your  death 
of  cold.     You  must  put  on  your  warm  cloak. ' ' 

Miss  Rice's  friends  were  principally  middle-aged 
ladies.  Her  sisters,  large,  stout  women,  used  to  come 
and  see  her,  and  there  was  a  fashionably-dressed 
young  man  whom  her  mistress  seemed  to  like  very 
much.  Mr.  Alden  was  his  name,  and  Miss  Rice  told 
Esther  that  he,  too,  wrote  novels ;  they  used  to  talk  about 
each  other's  books  for  hours,  and  Esther  feared  that 
Miss  Rice  was  giving  her  heart  away  to  one  who  did 
not  care  for  her.     But  perhaps  she  was  satisfied  to  see 

239 


240  ESTHER    WATERS 

Mr.  Alden  once  a  week  and  talk  for  an  hour  with  him 
about  books.  Esther  didn't  think  she'd  care,  if  she  had 
a  young  man,  to  see  him  come  and  go  like  a  shadow. 
But  she  hadn't  a  young  man,  and  did  not  want  one. 
All  she  now  wanted  was  to  awake  in  the  morning  and 
know  that  her  child  was  safe;  her  ambition  was  to 
make  her  mistress's  life  comfortable.  And  for  more 
than  a  year  she  pursued  her  plan  of  life  unswervingly. 
She  declined  an  offer  of  marriage,  and  was  rarely  per- 
suaded into  a  promise  to  walk  out  with  any  of  her 
admirers.  One  of  these  was  a  stationer's  foreman,  and 
almost  every  day  Esther  went  to  the  stationer's  for  the 
sermon  paper  on  which  her  mistress  wrote  her  novels, 
for  blotting-paper,  for  stamps,  to  post  letters — that 
shop  seemed  the  centre  of  their  lives. 

Fred  Parsons — that  was  his  name — was  a  meagre 
little  man  about  thirty-five.  A  high  and  prominent 
forehead  rose  above  a  small  pointed  face,  and  a  scanty 
growth  of  blonde  beard  and  moustache  did  not  conceal 
the  receding  chin  nor  the  red  sealing-wax  lips.  His 
faded  yellow  hair  was  beginning  to  grow  thin,  and  his 
threadbare  frock-coat  hung  limp  from  sloping  shoul- 
ders. But  these  disadvantages  were  compensated  by  a 
clear  bell-like  voice,  into  which  no  trace  of  doubt  ever 
seemed  to  come ;  and  his  mind  was  neatly  packed  with 
a  few  religious  and  political  ideas.  He  had  been  in 
business  in  the  West  End,  but  an  uncontrollable  desire 
to  ask  every  customer  who  entered  into  conversation 
with  him  if  he  were  sure  that  he  believed  in  the  second 
coming  of  Christ  had  been  the  cause  of  severance 
between  him  and  his  employers.  He  had  been  at  West 
Kensington  a  fortnight,  had  served  Esther  once  with 
sermon  paper,  and  had  already  begun  to  wonder  what 


ESTHER     WATERS  241 

were  her  religious  beliefs.  But  bearing  in  mind  his 
recent  dismissal,  he  refrained  for  the  present.  At  the 
end  of  the  week  they  were  alone  in  the  shop.  Esther 
had  come  for  a  packet  of  note-paper.  Fred  was  sorry 
she  had  not  come  for  sermon  paper;  if  she  had  it 
would  have  been  easier  to  inquire  her  opinions  regard- 
ing the  second  coming.  But  the  opportunity,  such  as 
it  was,  was  not  to  be  resisted.     He  said — 

"Your  mistress  seems  to  use  a  great  deal  of  paper; 
it  was  only  a  day  or  two  ago  that  I  served  you  with 
four  quires. ' ' 

"That  was  for  her  books;  what  she  now  wants  is 
note-paper." 

"So  your  mistress  writes  books!" 

"Yes." 

"I  hope  they're  good  books — books  that  are  helpful. " 
He  paused  to  see  that  no  one  was  within  earshot. 
"Books  that  bring  sinners  back  to  the  Lord." 

"I  don't  know  what  she  writes;  I  only  know 
she  writes  books;  I  think  I've  heard  she  writes  nov- 
els." 

Fred  did  not  approve  of  novels — Esther  could  see 
that — and  she  was  sorry ;  for  he  seemed  a  nice,  clear- 
spoken  young  man,  and  she  would  have  liked  to  tell 
him  that  her  mistress  was  the  last  person  who  would 
write  anything  that  could  do  harm  to  anyone.  But  her 
mistress  was  waiting  for  her  paper,  and  she  took  leave 
of  him  hastily.  The  next  time  they  met  was  in  the 
evening.  She  was  going  to  see  if  she  could  get  some 
fresh  eggs  for  her  mistress's  breakfast  before  the  shops 
closed,  and  coming  towards  her,  walking  at  a  great 
pace,  she  saw  one  whom  she  thought  she  recognised, 
a  meagre  little  man  with  long  reddish  hair  curling 


242  ESTHER    WATERS 

under  the  brim  of  a  large  soft  black  hat.  He  nodded, 
smiling  pleasantly  as  he  passed  her. 

*'Lor',"  she  thought,  "I  didn't  know  him;  it's  the 
stationer's  foreman."  And  the  very  next  evening 
they  met  in  the  same  street;  she  was  out  for  a  little 
walk,  he  was  hurrying  to  catch  his  train.  They 
stopped  to  pass  the  time  of  day,  and  three  days  after 
they  met  at  the  same  time,  and  as  nearly  as  possible  at 
the  same  place. 

*' We're  always  meeting,"  he  said. 

*'Yes,  isn't  it  strange?  .  .  .  You  come  this  way 
from  business?"  she  said. 

"Yes;  about  eight  o'clock  is  my  time." 

It  was  at  the  end  of  August ;  the  stars  caught  fire 
slowly  in  the  murky  London  sunset;  and,  vaguely 
conscious  of  a  feeling  of  surprise  at  the  pleasure  they 
took  in  each  other's  company,  they  wandered  round  a 
little  bleak  square  in  which  a  few  shrubs  had  just  been 
planted.  They  took  up  the  conversation  exactly  at  the 
point  where  it  had  been  broken  off. 

"I'm  sorry,"  Fred  said,  "that  the  paper  isn't  going 
to  be  put  to  better  use." 

"You  don't  know  my  mistress,  or  you  wouldn't  say 
that/' 

"Perhaps  you  don't  know  that  novels  are  very  often 
stories  about  the  loves  of  men  for  other  men's  wives. 
Such  books  can  serve  no  good  purpose." 

"I'm  sure  my  mistress  don't  write  about  such 
things.  How  could  she,  poor  dear  innocent  lamb?  It 
is  easy  to  see  you  don't  know  her." 

In  the  course  of  their  argument  it  transpired  that 
Miss  Rice  went  to  neither  church  nor  chapel. 

Fred  was  much  shocked. 


ESTHER     WATERS  243 

"I  hope,"  he  said,  "you  do  not  follow  your  mistress's 
example. ' ' 

Esther  admitted  she  had  for  some  time  past 
neglected  her  religion.  Fred  went  so  far  as  to  suggest 
that  she  ought  to  leave  her  present  situation  and  enter 
a  truly  religious  family. 

"I  owe  her  too  much  ever  to  think  of  leaving  her. 
And  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  her  if  I  haven't  thought 
as  much  about  the  Lord  as  I  ought  to  have.  It's  the 
first  place  I've  been  in  where  there  was  time  for 
religion." 

This  answer  seemed  to  satisfy  Fred. 

"Where  used  you  to  go?" 

"My  people — father  and  mother — belonged  to  the 
Brethren." 

"To  the  Close  or  the  Open?" 

"I  don't  remember;  I  was  only  a  little  child  at  the 
time. ' ' 

"I'm  a  Plymouth  Brother." 

"Well,  that  is  strange."  \ 

"Remember  that  it  is  only  through  belief  in  our 
Lord,  in  the  sacrifice  of  the  Cross,  that  we  can  be 
saved. ' ' 

"Yes,  I  believe  that." 

The  avowal  seemed  to  have  brought  them  strangely 
near  to  each  other,  and  on  the  following  Sunday  Fred 
took  Esther  to  meeting,  and  introduced  her  as  one  who 
had  strayed,  but  who  had  never  ceased  to  be  one  of 
them. 

She  had  not  been  to  meeting  since  she  was  a  little 
child;  and  the  bare  room  and  bare  dogma,  in  such 
immediate  accordance  with  her  own  nature — were 
they  not  associated  with  memories  of  home,  of  father 


244  ESTHER    WATERS 

and  mother,  of  all  that  had  gone?— touched  her  with  a 
human  delight  that  seemed  to  reach  to  the  roots  of  her 
nature.  It  was  Fred  who  preached ;  and  he  spoke  of 
the  second  coming  of  Christ,  when  the  faithful  would 
be  carried  away  in  clouds  of  glory,  of  the  rapine  and 
carnage  to  which  the  world  would  be  delivered  up 
before  final  absorption  in  everlasting  hell ;  and  a  sen- 
sation of  dreadful  awe  passed  over  the  listening  faces ; 
a  young  girl  who  sat  with  closed  eyes  put  out  her 
hand  to  assure  herself  that  Esther  was  still  there — that 
she  had  not  been  carried  away  in  glory. 

As  they  walked  home,  Esther  told  Fred  that  she  had 
not  been  so  happy  for  a  long  time.     He  pressed  her 
hand,  and  thanked  her  with  a  look  in  which  appeared 
all  his  soul;    she  was  his  for  ever  and  ever;  nothing 
could    wholly  disassociate    them;    he  had    saved   her 
soul.     His  exaltation  moved  her  to  wonder.     But  her 
own  innate    faith,   though  incapable  of  these  exalta- 
tions, had  supported  her  during  many  a  troublous  year. 
Fred  would  want  her  to  come  to  meeting  with  him  next 
Sunday,  and  she  was  going  to   Dulwich.     Sooner  or 
y    later  he  would  find  out  that  she  had  a  child,  then  she 
!    would   see  him  no    more.      It  were    better  that  she 
I    should  tell  him  than  that  he  should  hear  it  from  others. 
But  she  felt  she  could  not  bear  the  humiliation,  the 
shame;    and  she  wished  they  had  never  met.     That 
child  came  between  her  and  every  possible  happiness. 
.     It  were  better  to  break  off  with  Fred.     But 
what  excuse  could  she  give?     Everything  went  wrong 
with  her.     He  might  ask  her  to  marry  him,  then  she 
jwould  have  to  tell  him. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  week  she  heard  some  one  tap 
at  the  window;   it  was  Fred.     H^  asked  her  why  he 


ESTHER    WATERS  245 

had  not  seen  her ;  she  answered  that  she  had  not  had 
time. 

"Can  you  come  out  this  evening?" 

"Yes,  if  you  like." 

She  put  on  her  hat,  and  they  went  out.  Neither 
spoke,  but  their  feet  took  instinctively  the  pavement 
that  led  to  the  little  square  where  they  had  walked  the 
first  time  they  went  out  together. 

"I've  been  thinking  of  you  a  good  deal,  Esther,  in 
the  last  few  days.     I  want  to  ask  you  to  marry  me. 

Esther  did  not  answer. 

"Will  you?"  he  said. 

"I  can't;  I'm  very  sorry;  don't  ask  me." 

"Why  can't  you?" 

"If  I  told  you  I  don't  think  you'd  want  to  marry  me. 
I  suppose  I'd  better  tell  you.  I'm  not  the  good  woman 
you  think  me.  I've  got  a  child.  There,  you  have  it 
now,  and  you  can  take  your  hook  when  you  like. 

It  was  her  blunt,  sullen  nature  that  had  spoken ;  she 
didn't  care  if  he  left  her  on  the  spot — now  he  knew  all 
and  could  do  as  he  liked.     At  last  he  said— 

"But  you've  repented,  Esther?" 

"I  should  think  I  had,  and  been  punished  too, 
enough  for  a  dozen  children." 

"Ah,  then  it  wasn't  lately?" 

' ' Lately !     It's  nearly  eight  year  ago. ' ' 

"And  all  that  time  you've  been  a  good  Nvoraan?" 

"Yes,  I  think  I've  been  that." 

"Then  if " 

"I  don't  want  no  ifs.  If  I  am  not  good  enough  for 
you,  you  can  go  elsewhere  and  get  better;  I've  had 
enough  of  reproaches. ' ' 

"I  did  net  mean  to  reproach  you;    I  know  that  a 


246  ESTHER     WATERS 

woman's  path  is  more  difficult  to  walk  in  than  ours. 

i  It  may  not  be  a  woman's  fault  if  she  falls,  but  it  is 

>;^^^  [^always  a  man's.     He  can  always  fly  from  temptation." 

i.*:^       ;  ''Yet  there  isn't  a  man  that  can  say  he  hasn't  gone 

J  z^*'''? wrong." 

"No,  not  all,  Esther." 

Esther  looked  him  full  in  the  face. 

"I  understand  what  you  mean,  Esther,  but  I  can 
honestly  say  that  I  never  have." 

Esther  did  not  like  him  any  better  for  his  purity, 
and  was  irritated  by  the  clear  tones  of  his  icy  voice. 

"But  that  is  no  reason  why  I  should  be  hard  on  those 
who  have  not  been  so  fortunate.  I  didn't  mean  to 
reproach  you  just  now,  Esther;  I  only  meant  to  say 
that  I  wish  you  had  told  me  this  before  I  took  you  to 
meeting. ' ' 

"So  you're  ashamed  of  me,  is  that  it?  Well,  you  can 
keep  your  shame  to  yourself." 

"No,  not  that,  Esther " 

"Then  you'd  like  to  see  me  humiliated  before  the 
others,  as  if  I  haven't  had  enough  of  that  already. ' ' 

"No,  Esther,  listen  to  me.  Those  who  transgress 
the  moral  law  may  not  kneel  at  the  table  for  a  time, 
until  they  have  repented ;  but  those  who  believe  in  the 
sacrifice  of  the  Cross  are  acquitted,  and  I  believe  you 
do  that." 

"Yes." 

"A  sinner  that  repenteth I  will  speak  about 

this  at  our  next  meeting;  you  will  come  with  me 
there?" 

"Next  Sunday  I'm  going  to  Dulwich  to  see  the 
child." 

"Can't  you  go  after  meeting?" 


ESTHER     WATERS  247 

**No,  I  can't  be  out  morning  and  afternoon  both." 

"May  I  go  with  you?" 

"To  Dulwich!" 

"You  won't  go  until  after  meeting;  I  can  meet  you 
it  the  railway  station. ' ' 

"If  you  like." 

As  they  walked  home  Esther  told  Fred  the  story  of 
ler  betrayal.  He  was  interested  in  the  story,  and  was 
/ery  sorry  for  her. 

"I  love  you,  Esther;  it  is  easy  to  forgive  those  we 
.ove." 

"You're  very  good;  I  never  thought  to  find  a  man 
50  good."  She  looked  up  in  his  face ;  her  hand  was  on 
the  gate,  and  in  that  moment  she  felt  that  she  almost 
loved  him. 


XXIV. 

("  Mrs.  ^  Humphries,  an  elderly  person,  who  looked 
after  a  bachelor's  establishment  two  doors  up,  and 
generally  slipped  in  about  tea-time,  soon  began  to 
speak  of  Fred  as  a  very  nice  young  man  who  would  be 
likely  to  make  a  woman  happy.  But  Esther  moved 
about  the  kitchen  in  her  taciturn  way,  hardly  answer- 
ing. Suddenly  she  told  Mrs.  Humphries  that  she  had 
been  to  Dulwich  with  him,  and  that  it  was  wonderful 
how  he  and  Jackie  had  taken  to  one  another. 

"You  don't  say  so!  Well,  it  is  nice  to  find  them 
religious  folks  less  'ard-'earted  than  they  gets  the 
name  of." 

Mrs.  Humphries  was  of  the  opinion  that  henceforth 
Esther  should  give  herself  out  as  Jackie's  aunt. 
"None  believes  them  stories,  but  they  make  one  seem 
more  respectable  like,  and  I  am  sure  Mr.  Parsons  will 
appreciate  the  intention.  "  Esther  did  not  answer,  but 
she  thought  of  what  Mrs.  Humphries  had  said.  Per- 
haps it  would  be  better  if  Jackie  were  to  leave  off  call- 
ing her  Mummie.  Auntie!  But  no,  she  could  not 
bear  it.  Fred  must  take  her  as  she  was  or  not  at  all. 
They  seemed  to  understand  each  other;  he  was  earn- 
ing good  money,  thirty  shillings  a  week,  and  she  was 
now  going  on  for  eight-and-twenty ;  if  she  was  ever 
going  to  be  married  it  was  time  to  think  about  it. 

"I  don't  know  how  that  dear  soul  will  get  on  with- 
out me,"  she  said  one  October  morning  as  they  jogged 

248 


ESTHER     WATERS  249 

out  of  London  by  a  slow  train  from  St.  Paul's.  Fred 
was  taking  her  into  Kent  to  see  his  people. 

''How  <b  you  expect  me  to  get  on  without  you?" 

Esther  laughed. 

"Trast  you  to  manage  somehow.  There  ain't  much 
fear  of  a  man  not  looking  after  his  little  self. 

"But  the  old  folk  will  want  to  know  when.  What 
shall  I  tell  them?" 

"This  time  next  year;  that'll  be  soon  enough.  Per- 
haps you'll  get  tired  of  me  before  then." 

"Say  next  spring,  Esther." 

The  train  stopped. 

"There's  father  waiting  for  us  in  the  spring-cart. 
Father!  He  don't  hear  us.  He's  gone  a  bit  deaf  of 
late  years.     Father!" 

"Ah,  so  here  you  are.     Train  late." 

"This  is  Esther,  father." 

They  were  going  to  spend  the  day  at  the  farm-house, 
and  she  was  going  to  be  introduced  to  Fred's  sisters 
and  to  his  brother.  But  these  did  not  concern  her 
much,  her  thoughts  were  set  on  Mrs.  Parsons,  for 
Fred  had  spoken  a  great  deal  about  his  mother.  When 
she  had  been  told  about  Jackie  she  was  of  course  very 
sorry;  but  when  she  had  heard  the  whole  of  Esther's 
story  she  had  said,  "We  are  all  born  into  temptation, 
and  if  your  Esther  has  really  repented  and  prayed  to 
be  forgiven,  we  must  not  say  no  to  her."  Neverthe- 
less Esther  was  not  quite  easy  in  her  mind,  and  half 
regretted  that  she  had  consented  to  see  Fred's  people 
until  he  had  made  her  his  wife.  But  it  was  too  late  to 
think  of  such  things.  There  was  the  farm-house. 
Fred  had  just  pointed  it  out,  and,  scenting  his  stable, 
the  old  grey  ascended  the  hill  at  a  trot,  and  Esther 


250  ESTHER    WATERS 

wondered  what  the  farm-house  would  be  like.  All  the 
summer  they  had  had  a  fine  show  of  flowers,  Fred 
said.  Now  only  a  few  Michaelmas  daisies  withered  in 
the  garden,  and  the  Virginia  creeper  covered  one  side 
of  the  house  with  a  crimson  mantle.  The  old  man 
said  he  would  take  the  trap  round  to  the  stable,  and 
Fred  walked  up  the  red-bricked  pavement  and  lifted 
the  latch.  As  they  passed  through  the  kitchen  Fred 
introduced  Esther  to  his  two  sisters,  Mary  and  Lily. 
But  they  were  busy  cooking. 

"Mother  is  in  the  parlour,"  said  Mary;  "she  is  wait- 
ing for  you." 

By  the  window,  in  a  wide  wooden  arm-chair,  sat  a 
large  woman  about  sixty,  dressed  in  black.  She  wore 
on  either  side  of  her  long  white  face  two  corkscrew 
curls,  which  gave  her  a  somewhat  ridiculous  appear- 
ance. But  she  ceased  to  be  ridiculous  or  grotesque 
when  she  rose  from  her  chair  to  greet  her  son.  Her 
face  beamed,  and  she  held  out  her  hands  in  a  beautiful 
gesture  of  welcome. 

"Oh,  how  do  you  do,  dear  Fred?  I  am  that  glad  to 
see  you!  How  good  of  you  to  come  all  this  way! 
Come  and  sit  down  here." 

"Mother,  this  is  Esther." 

"How  do  you  do,  Esther?  It  was  good  of  you  to 
come.  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  Let  me  get  you  a  chair. 
Take  off  your  things,  dear;  come  and  sit  down." 

She  insisted  on  relieving  Esther  of  her  hat  and 
jacket,  and,  having  laid  them  on  the  sofa,  she  waddled 
across  the  room,  drawing  over  two  chairs. 

"Come  and  sit  down;  you'll  tell  me  everything.  I 
can't  get  about  much  now,  but  I  like  to  have  my  chil- 
dren round    me.      Take   this  chair,    Esther."      Then 


ESTHER     WATERS  251 

tnmlng  to  Fred,  "Tell  me,  Fred,  how  you've  been  get- 
ting on.     Are  you  still  living  at  Hackney?" 

"Yes,  mother;  but  when  we're  married  we're  going 
to  have  ^  cottage  at  Mortlake.  Esther  will  like  it 
better  than  Hackney.     It  is  nearer  the  country." 

"Then  you've  not  forgotten  the  country.  Mortlake 
is  on  the  river,  I  think.  I  hope  you  won't  find  it  too 
damp." 

"No,  mother,  there  are  some  nice  cottages  there.  I 
think  we  shall  find  that  Mortlake  suits  us.  There  are 
many  friends  there;  more  than  fifty  meet  together 
every  Sunday.  And  there's  a  lot  of  political  work  to 
be  done  there.  I  know  that  you're  against  politics,  but 
men  can't  stand  aside  nowadays.  Times  change, 
mother." 

"So  long  as  we  have  God  in  our  hearts,  my  dear 
boy,  all  that  we  do  is  well.  But  you  must  want  some- 
thing after  your  journey.  Fred,  dear,  knock  at  that 
door.  Your  sister  Clara's  dressing  there.  Tell  her  to 
make  haste. ' ' 

"All  right,  mother,"  cried  a  voice  from  behind  the 
partition  which  separated  the  rooms,  and  a  moment 
after  the  door  opened  and  a  young  woman  about  thirty 
entered.  She  was  better-looking  than  the  other  sis- 
ters, and  the  fashion  of  her  skirt,  and  the  worldly 
manner  with  which  she  kissed  her  brother  and  gave 
her  hand  to  Esther,  marked  her  off  at  once  from  the 
rest  of  her  family.  She  was  forewoman  in  a  large  mil- 
linery establishment.  She  spent  Saturday  afternoon 
and  Sunday  at  the  farm,  but  to-day  she  had  got  away 
earlier,  and,  with  the  view  to  impressing  Esther,  she 
explained  how  this  had  come  about. 

Mrs   Parsons  suggested  a  glass  of  currant  wine,  and 


252  ESTHER    WATERS 

Lily  came  in  with  a  tray  and  glasses.  C' 
was  starving.  Maiy  said  she  would  have 
Lily  whispered,  "In  about  half-an-hour. " 

After  dinner  the  old  man  said  that  they  uia.st  be  gct-- 
ting  on  with  their  work  in  the  orchard.     F.N^hcr  said 
she  would  be  glad  to  help,  but  as  she  wa: 
low  the  others  Mrs.  Parsons  detained  her 

"You  don't  mind  staying  with  me  a  fe  > 

you,  dear?     I  shan't  keep  you  long."     S    .  r 

a  chair  for  Esther.     "I  shan't  perhaps  /on  a^a  i 

for  some  time.     I  am  getting  an  old  w(  anc  f-  e 

Lord  may  be  pleased  to  take  me  at  any  moment.  I 
wanted  to  tell  you,  dear,  that  I  put  my  trust  in  you. 
You  will  make  a  good  wife  to  Fred,  I  feel  sure,  and  he 
will  make  a  good  father  to  your  child,  and  if  God 
blesses  you  with  other  children  he'll  treat  your  first  no 
different  than  the  others.  He's  told  me  so,  and  my 
Fred  is  a  man  of  his  word.  You  were  led  into  sin,  but 
you've  repented.  We  was  all  bom  into  temptation, 
and  we  must  trust  to  the  Lord  to  lead  us  out  lest  we 
should  dash  our  foot  against  a  stone. ' ' 

"I  was  to  blame;  I  don't  say  I  wasn't,  but ** 

"We  won't  say  no  more  about  that.  We're  all  sin- 
ners, the  best  of  us.  You're  going  to  be  my  son's 
wife;  you're  therefore  my  daughter,  and  this  house  is 
your  home  whenever  you  please  to  come  to  see  us. 
And  I  hope  that  that  will  be  often.  I  like  to  have  my 
children  about  me.  I  can't  get  about  much  now,  so 
they  must  come  to  me.  It  is  very  sad  not  to  be  able 
to  go  to  meeting.  I've  not  been  to  meeting  since 
Christmas,  but  I  can  see  them  going  there  from  the 
kitchen  window,  and  how  'appy  they  look  coming  back 
froiD  prayer.     It  is  easy  to  see  that  they  have  been 


ESTHER     WATERS  253 

with  God.  The  Salvationists  come  this  way  some- 
times. They  stopped  in  the  lane  to  sing.  I  could  not 
hear  the  words,  but  I  could  see  by  their  faces  that  they 
was  with  God.  .  .  .  Now,  I've  told  you  all  that 
was  on  my  mind.  I  must  not  keep  you;  Fred  is  wait- 
ing." 

Esther  kissed  the  old  woman,  and  went  into  the 
orchard,  where  she  found  Fred  on  a  ladder  shaking  the 
branches.  He  came  down  when  he  saw  Esther,  and 
Harry,  his  brother,  took  his  place.  Esther  and  Fred 
filled  one  basket,  then,  yielding  to  a  mutual  inclina- 
tion, they  wandered  about  the  orchard,  stopping  on  the 
little  plank  bridge.  They  hardly  spoke  at  all,  words 
seemed  unnecessary ;  each  felt  happiness  to  be  in  the 
other's  presence.  They  heard  the  water  trickling 
through  the  weeds,  and  as  the  light  waned  the  sound 
of  the  falling  apples  grew  more  distinct.  Then  a 
breeze  shivered  among  the  tops  of  the  apple-trees,  and 
the  sered  leaves  were  blown  from  the  branches.  The 
voices  of  the  gatherers  were  heard  crying  that  their 
baskets  were  full.  They  crossed  the  plank  bridge, 
joking  the  lovers,  who  stood  aside  to  let  them  pass. 

When  they  entered  the  house  they  saw  the  old 
farmer,  who  had  slipped  in  before  them,  sitting  by  his 
wife  holding  her  hand,  patting  it  in  a  curious  old-time 
way,  and  the  attitude  of  the  old  couple  was  so  preg- 
nant with  significance  that  it  fixed  itself  on  Esther's 
mind.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  never  seen  any- 
thing so  beautiful.  So  they  had  lived  for  forty  years, 
faithful  to  each  other,  and  she  wondered  if  Fred  forty 
years  hence  would  be  sitting  by  her  side  holding  her 
hand. 

The  old  man  lighted  a  lantern  and  went  round  to  the 


254  ESTHER     WATERS 

stable  to  get  a  trap  out.  Driving  through  the  dark 
countr}^,  seeing  village  lights  shining  out  of  the  distant 
solitudes,  was  a  thrilling  adventure.  A  peasant  came 
like  a  ghost  out  of  the  darkness ;  he  stepped  aside  and 
called,  "Good-night!"  which  the  old  farmer  answered 
somewhat  gruffly,  while  Fred  answered  in  a  ringing, 
cheery  tone.  Never  had  Esther  spent  so  long  and 
happy  a  day.  Everything  had  combined  to  produce  a 
strange  exaltation  of  the  spirit  in  her ;  and  she  listened 
to  Fred  more  tenderly  than  she  had  done  before. 

The  train  rattled  on  through  suburbs  beginning  far 
away  in  the  country;  rattled  on  through  suburbs  that 
thickened  at  every  mile;  rattled  on  through  a  brick 
entanglement;  rattled  over  iron  bridges,  passed  over 
deep  streets,  over  endless  lines  of  lights. 

He  bade  her  good-bye  at  the  area  gate,  and  she  had 
promised  him  that  they  should  be  married  in  the 
spring.  He  had  gone  away  with  a  light  heart.  And 
she  had  run  upstairs  to  tell  her  dear  mistress  of  the 
happy  day  which  her  kindness  had  allowed  her  to 
spend  in  the  country.  And  Miss  Rice  had  laid  the 
book  she  was  reading  on  her  knees,  and  had  listened  to 
Esther's  pleasures  as  if  they  had  been  her  own. 


XXV. 

But  when  the  spring  came  Esther  put  Fred  off  till 
the  autumn,  pleading  as  an  excuse  that  Miss  Rice  had 
not  been  very  well  lately,  and  that  she  did  not  like  to 
leave  her. 

It  was  one  of  those  long  and  pallid  evenings  at  the 
end  of  July,  when  the  sky  seems  as  if  it  could  not 
darken.  The  roadway  was  very  still  in  its  dust  and 
heat,  and  Esther,  her  print  dress  trailing,  watched  a 
poor  horse  striving  to  pull  a  four-wheeler  through  the 
loose  heavy  gravel  that  had  just  been  laid  down.  So 
absorbed  was  she  in  her  pity  for  the  poor  animal  that 
she  did  not  see  the  gaunt,  broad-shouldered  man  com- 
ing towards  her,  looking  very  long-legged  in  a  pair  of 
light  grey  trousers  and  a  black  jacket  a  little  too  short 
for  him.  He  walked  with  long,  even  strides,  a  small 
cane  in  one  hand,  the  other  in  his  trousers  pocket ;  a 
heavy  gold  chain  showed  across  his  waistcoat.  He 
wore  a  round  hat  and  a  red  necktie.  The  side  whiskers 
and  the  shaven  upper  lip  gave  him  the  appearance  of  a 
gentleman's  valet.  He  did  not  notice  Esther,  but  a 
sudden  step  taken  sideways  as  she  lingered,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  cab-horse,  brought  her  nearly  into  col- 
lision with  him. 

"Do  look  where  you  are  going  to,"  he  exclaimed, 
jumping  back  to  avoid  the  beer-jug,  which  fell  to  the 
ground.     "What,  Esther,  is  it  you?" 

"There,  you  have  made  me  drop  the  beer.** 
10  255 


256  ESTHER     WATERS 

''Plenty  more  in  the  public;    I'll  get  yon  another 

jug." 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you.     I  can  get  what  I   want 

myself. '  * 

They  looked  at  each  other,  and  at  the  end  of  a  long 
silence  William  said:  "Just  fancy  meeting  you,  and  in 
this  way !     Well  I  never !     I  am  glad  to  see  you  again. ' ' 

"Are  you  really!  Well,  so  much  for  that — your 
way  and  mine  aren't  the  same.  I  wish  you  good 
evening. ' ' 

"Stop  a  moment,  Esther." 

"And  my  mistress  waiting  for  her  dinner.  I've  to 
go  and  get  some  more  beer. ' ' 

"Shall  I  wait  for  you?" 

"Wait  for  me!     I  should  think  not,  indeed." 

Esther  ran  down  the  area  steps.  Her  hand  paused 
as  it  was  about  to  lift  the  jug  down  from  the  dresser, 
and  a  number  of  thoughts  fled  across  her  mind.  That 
man  would  be  waiting  for  her  outside.  What  was  she 
to  do?  How  unfortunate!  If  he  continued  to  come 
after  her  he  and  Fred  would  be  sure  to  meet. 

"What  are  you  waiting  for,  I  should  like  to  know?" 
she  cried,  as  she  came  up  the  steps. 

"That's  'ardly  civil,  Esther,  and  after  so  many  years 
too ;  one  would  think ' ' 

' '  I  want  none  of  your  thinking ;  get  out  of  my  sight. 
Do  you  'ear?  I  want  no  truck  with  you  whatever. 
Haven't  you  done  me  enough  mischief  already?" 

"Be  quiet;  listen  to  me.     I'll  explain." 

"I  don't  want  none  of  your  explanation.     Go  away." 

Her  whole  nature  was  now  in  full  revolt,  and  quick 
with  passionate  remembrance  of  the  injustice  that  had 
been  done  her,  she  drew  back  from  him,  her  eyes  flash- 


ESTHER     WATERS  257 

ing.  Perhaps  it  was  some  passing  remembrance  of  the 
breakage  of  the  first  beer-jug  that  prevented  her  from 
striking  him  with  the  second.  The  spasm  passed,  and 
then  her  rage,  instead  of  venting  itself  in  violent 
action,  assumed  the  form  of  dogged  silence.  He  fol- 
lowed her  up  the  street,  and  into  the  bar.  She  handed 
the  jug  across  the  counter,  and  while  the  barman  filled 
it  searched  in  her  pocket  for  the  money.  Sh^  had 
brought  none  with  her.  William  promptly  produced 
sixpence.  Esther  answered  him  with  a  quick,  angry 
glance,  and  addressing  the  barman,  she  said,  "I'll  pay 
you  to-morrow;  that'll  do,  I  suppose?  41  Avondale 
Road." 

"That  will  be  all  right,  but  what  am  I  to  do  with 
this  sixpence?" 

"I  know  nothing  about  that,"  Esther  said,  picking 
up  her  skirt;  "I'll  pay  you  for  what  I  have  had." 

Holding  the  sixpence  in  his  short,  thick,  and  wet 
fingers,  the  barman  looked  at  William.  William 
smiled,  and  said,  "Well,  they  do  run  sulky  sometimes. " 

He  caught  at  the  leather  strap  and  pulled  the  door 
open  for  her,  and  as  she  passed  out  she  became  aware 
that  William  still  admired  her.  It  was  really  too  bad, 
and  she  was  conscious  of  injustice.  Ha\'ing  destroyed 
her  life,  this  man  had  passed  out  of  sight  and  knowl- 
edge, but  only  to  reappear  when  a  vista  leading  to  a 
new  life  seemed  open  before  her. 

"It  was  that  temper  of  yours  that  did  it;  you 
wouldn't  speak  to  me  for  a  fortnight.  You  haven't 
changed,  I  can  see  that,"  he  said,  watching  Esther's 
face,  which  did  not  alter  until  he  spoke  of  how  unhappy 
he  had  been  in  his  marriage.  "A  regular  brute  she 
was — we're  no  longer   together,  you  know;   haven't 


258  ESTHER    WATERS 

been  for  the  last  three  years ;  could  not  put  up  with 
'er.  She  was  that — but  that's  a  long  story. "  Esther 
did  not  answer  him.  He  looked  at  her  anxiously,  and 
seeing  that  she  would  not  be  won  over  easily,  he  spoke 
of  his  money. 

"Look  'ere,  Esther,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  the 
area  gate.  "You  won't  refuse  to  come  out  with  me 
some  Sunday.  I've  a  half  a  share  in  a  public-house, 
the  'King's  Head,'  and  have  been  backing  winners  all 
this  year.  I've  plenty  of  money  to  treat  you.  I 
should  like  to  make  it  up  to  you.  Perhaps  you've  'ad 
rather  a  'ard  time.  What  'ave  yer  been  doing  all 
these  years?     I  want  to  hear." 

"What  'ave  I  been  doing?  Trying  to  bring  up  your 
child!     That's  what  I've  been  doing." 

"There's  a  child,  then,  is  there?"  said  William, 
taken  aback.  Before  he  could  recover  himself  Esther 
had  slipped  past  him  down  the  area  into  the  house. 
For  a  moment  he  looked  as  if  he  were  going  to  follow 
her ;  on  second  thoughts  he  thought  he  had  better  not. 
He  lingered  a  moment  and  then  walked  slowly  away  in 
the  direction  of  the  Metropolitan  Railway. 

"I'm  sorry  to  'ave  kept  you  waiting,  miss,  but  I  met 
with  an  accident  and  had  to  come  back  for  another 

jug." 

"And  what  was  the  accident  you  met  with,  Esther?" 
"I  wasn't  paying  no  attention,  miss;  I  was  looking 
at  a  cab  that  could  hardly  get  through  the  stones 
they've  been  laying  down  in  the  Pembroke  Road;  the 
poor  little  horse  was  pulling  that  'ard  that  I  thought 
he'd  drop  down  dead,  and  while  I  was  looking  I  ran  up 
against  a  passer-by,  and  being  a  bit  taken  aback  I 
dropped  the  jug." 


ESTHER    WATERS  259 

**How  was  that?  Did  you  know  the  passer-by?" 
Esther  busied  herself  with  the  dishes  on  the  side- 
board ;  and,  divining  that  something  serious  had  hap- 
pened to  her  servant,  Miss  Rice  refrained  and  allowed 
the  dinner  to  pass  in  silence.  Half-an-hour  later 
Esther  came  into  the  study  with  her  mistress's  tea. 
She  brought  over  the  wicker  table,  and  as  she  set  it  by 
her  mistress's  knees  the  shadows  about  the  bookcase 
and  the  light  of  the  lamp  upon  the  book  and  the  pen- 
sive content  on  Miss  Rice's  face  impelled  her  to  think 
of  her  own  troubles,  the  hardship,  the  passion,  the 
despair  of  her  life  compared  with  this  tranquil  exist- 
ence. Never  had  she  felt  more  certain  that  misfortune 
was  inherent  in  her  life.  She  remembered  all  the 
trouble  she  had  had,  she  wondered  how  she  had  come 
out  of  it  all  alive;  and  now,  just  as  things  seemed  like 
settling,  everything  was  going  to  be  upset  again. 
Fred  was  away  for  a  fortnight's  holiday — she  was  safe 
for  eleven  or  twelve  days.  After  that  she  did  not 
know  what  might  not  happen.  Her  instinct  told  her 
that  although  he  had  passed  over  her  fault  very 
lightly,  so  long  as  he  knew  nothing  of  the  father  of  her 
child,  he  might  not  care  to  marry  her  if  William  con- 
tinued to  come  after  her.  Ah!  if  she  hadn't  happened 
to  go  out  at  that  particular  time  she  might  never  have 
met  William.  He  did  not  live  in  the  neighbourhood; 
if  he  did  they  would  have  met  before.  Perhaps  he  had 
just  settled  in  the  neighbourhood.  That  would  be 
worst  of  all.  No,  no,  no ;  it  was  a  mere  accident ;  if 
the  cask  of  beer  had  held  out  a  day  or  two  longer,  or  if 
it  had  run  out  a  day  or  two  sooner,  she  might  never 
have  met  William !  But  now  she  could  not  keep  out 
of  his  way.      He  spent  the  whole  day  in  the  street 


26o  ESTHER    WATERS 

waiting  for  her.  If  she  went  out  on  an  errand  he  fol- 
lowed her  there  and  back.  If  she'd  onl}^  listen.  She 
was  prettier  than  ever.  He  had  never  cared  for  any- 
one else.  He  would  marry  her  when  he  got  his 
divorce,  and  then  the  child  would  be  theirs.  She  did 
not  answer  him,  but  her  blood  boiled  at  the  word 
*'theirs. "  How  could  Jackie  become  their  child? 
Was  it  not  she  who  had  worked  for  him,  brought  him 
up?  and  she  thought  as  little  of  his  paternity  as  if  he 
had  fallen  from  heaven  into  her  arms. 

One  evening  as  she  was  laying  the  table  her  grief 
took  her  unawares,  and  she  was  obliged  to  dash  aside 
the  tears  that  had  risen  to  her  eyes.  The  action  was 
so  apparent  that  Miss  Rice  thought  it  would  be  an 
affectation  to  ignore  it.  So  she  said  in  her  kind, 
musical,  intimate  manner,  "Esther,  I'm  afraid  you 
have  some  trouble  on  your  mind;  can  I  do  anything 
for  you?" 

"No,  miss,  no,  it's  nothing;  I  shall  get  over  it  pres- 
ently." 

But  the  effort  of  speaking  was  too  much  for  her,  and 
a  bitter  sob  caught  her  in  the  throat. 

"You  had  better  tell  me  your  trouble,  Esther;  even 
if  I  cannot  help  you  it  will  ease  your  heart  to  tell  m^e 
about  it.     I  hope  nothing  is  the  matter  with  Jackie?" 

"No,  miss,  no;    thank  God,  he's  well  enough.     It's 

nothing  to  do  with  him;  leastways "     Then  with  a 

violent  effort  she  put  back  her  tears.  "Oh,  it  is  silly 
of  me,"  she  said,  "and  your  dinner  getting  cold." 

"I  don't  want  to  pry  into  your  affairs,  Esther,  but 
you  know  that " 

"Yes,  miss,  I  know  you  to  be  kindness  itself;  but 
there's  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  bear  it.     You  asked 


ESTHER    WATERS  261 

me  just  now  if  it  had  anything  to  do  with  Jackie. 
Well,  it  is  no  more  than  that  his  father  has  come 
back." 

"But  surely,  Esther,  that's  hardly  a  reason  for  sor- 
row ;  I  should  have  thought  that  you  would  have  been 
glad." 

"It  is  only  natural  that  you  should  think  so,  miss; 
them  what  hasn't  been  through  the  trouble  never 
thinks  the  same  as  them  that  has.  You  see,  miss,  it  is 
nearly  nine  years  since  I've  seen  him,  and  during  them 
nine  years  I  'ave  been  through  so  much.  I  'ave 
worked  and  slaved,  and  been  through  all  the  'ardship, 
and  now,  when  the  worst  is  over,  he  comes  and  wants 
me  to  marry  him  when  he  gets  his  divorce." 

"Then  you  like  some  one  else  better?" 

"Yes,  miss,  I  do,  and  what  makes  it  so  'ard  to  bear 
is  that  for  the  last  two  months  or  more  I've  been  keep- 
ing company  with  Fred  Parsons — that's  the  stationer's 
assistant;  you've  seen  him  in  the  shop,  miss — and  he 
and  me  is  engaged  to  be  married.  He's  earning  good 
money,  thirty  shillings  a  week;  he's  as  good  a  young 
man  as  ever  stepped — religious,  kind-hearted,  every- 
thing as  would  make  a  woman  'appy  in  'er  'ome.  It  is 
'ard  for  a  girl  to  keep  up  with  'er  religion  in  some  of 
the  situations  we  have  to  put  up  with,  and  I'd  mostly 
got  out  of  the  habit  of  chapel-going  till  I  met  him ;  it 
was  'e  who  led  me  back  again  to  Christ.  But  for  all 
that,  understanding  very  well,  not  to  say  indulgent  for 
the  failings  of  others,  like  yourself,  miss.  He  knew 
all  about  Jackie  from  the  first,  and  never  said  nothing 
about  it,  but  that  I  must  have  suffered  cruel,  which  I 
have.  He's  been  with  me  to  see  Jackie,  and  they  both 
took  to  each  other  wonderful  like;    it  couldn't   'ave 


262  ESTHER    WATERS 

been  more  so  if  'e'd  been  'is  own  father.  But  now  all 
that's  broke  up,  for  when  Fred  meets  William  it  is  as 
likely  as  not  as  he'll. think  quite  different." 

The  evening  died  behind  the  red-brick  suburb,  and 
Miss  Rice's  strip  of  garden  grew  greener.  She  had 
finished  her  dinner,  and  she  leaned  back  thinking  of 
the  story  she  had  heard.  She  was  one  of  those 
secluded  maiden  ladies  so  common  in  England,  whose 
experience  of  life  is  limited  to  a  tea  party,  and  whose 
further  knowledge  of  life  is  derived  from  the  yellow- 
backed  French  novels  which  fill  their  bookcases. 

"How  was  it  that  you  happened  to  meet  William — I 
think  you  said  his  name  was  William?" 

"It  was  the  day,  miss,  that  I  went  to  fetch  the  beer 
from  the  public-house.  It  was  he  that  made  me  drop 
the  jug ;  you  remember,  miss,  I  had  to  come  back  for 
another.  I  told  you  about  it  at  the  time.  When  I 
went  out  again  with  a  fresh  jug  he  was  waiting  for  me, 
he  followed  me  to  the  'Greyhound'  and  wanted  to  pay 
for  the  beer — not  likely  that  I'd  let  him;  I  told  them 
to  put  it  on  the  slate,  and  that  I'd  pay  for  it  to-mor- 
row. I  didn't  speak  to  him  on  leaving  the  bar,  but  he 
followed  me  to  the  gate.  He  wanted  to  know  what 
I'd  been  doing  all  the  time.  Then  my  temper  got  the 
better  of  me,  and  I  said,  'Looking  after  your  child.' 
*My  child!'  says  he.     'So  there's  a  child,  is  there?'  " 

"I  think  you  told  me  that  he  married  one  of  the 
young  ladies  at  the  place  you  were  then  in  situation?" 

"Young  lady!  No  fear,  she  wasn't  no  young  lady. 
Anyway,  she  was  too  good  or  too  bad  for  him;  for 
they  didn't  get  on,  and  are  now  living  separate." 

"Does  he  speak  about  the  child?  Does  he  ask  to  see 
him?" 


ESTHER    WATERS  263 

**Lor',  yes,  miss;  he'd  the  cheek  to  say  the  other  day 
that  we'd  make  him  our  child — our  child,  indeed  I  and 
after  all  these  years  I've  been  working  and  he  doing 
nothing." 

' '  Perhaps  he  might  like  to  do  something  for  him ; 
perhaps  that's  what  he's  thinking  of." 

"No,  miss,  I  know  him  better  than  that.  That's  his 
cunning;  he  thinks  he'll  get  me  through  the  child." 

"In  any  case  I  don't  see  what  you'll  gain  by  refusing 
to  speak  to  him ;  if  you  want  to  do  something  for  the 
child,  you  can.  You  said  he  was  proprietor  of  a 
public-house." 

"I  don't  want  his  money;  please  God,  we'll  be  able 
to  do  without  it  to  the  end. ' ' 

"If  I  were  to  die  to-morrow,  Esther,  remember  that 
you  would  be  in  exactly  the  same  position  as  you  were 
when  you  entered  my  ser^'ice.  You  remember  what 
that  was?  You  have  often  told  me  there  was  only 
eighteen-pence  between  you  and  the  workhouse ;  you 
owed  Mrs.  Lewis  two  weeks'  money  for  the  support  of 
the  child.  I  daresay  you've  saved  a  little  money  since 
you've  been  w^ith  me,  but  it  cannot  be  more  than  a  few 
pounds.  I  don't  think  that  you  ought  to  let  this 
chance  slip  through  your  fingers,  if  not  for  your  own, 
for  Jackie's  sake.  William,  according  to  his  own 
account,  is  making  money.  He  may  become  a  rich 
man ;  he  has  no  children  by  his  w4fe ;  he  might  like  to 
leave  some  of  his  money — in  any  case,  he'd  like  to 
leave  something — to  Jackie." 

"He  was  always  given  to  boasting  about  money.  I 
don't  believe  all  he  says  about  money  or  anything 
else." 

"That  may  be,  but  he  may  have  money,   and  you 


264  ESTHER     WATERS 

have  no  right  to  refuse  to  allow  him  to  provide  for 
Jackie.  Supposing  later  on  Jackie  were  to  reproach 
you?" 

* 'Jackie  'd  never  do  that,  miss;  he'd  know  I  acted 
for  the  best." 

' '  If  you  again  found  3^ourself  out  of  a  situation,  and 
saw  Jackie  crying  for  his  dinner,  you'd  reproach  your- 
self." 

"I  don't  think  I  should,  miss." 

"I  know  you  are  very  obstinate,  Esther.  When  does 
Parsons  return?" 

"In  about  a  week,  miss." 

"Without  telling  William  anything  about  Parsons, 
you'll  be  able  to  find  out  w^hether  it  is  his  intention  to 
interfere  in  your  life.  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  it 
is  important  that  the  two  men  should  not  meet ;  but  it 
seems  to  me,  by  refusing  to  speak  to  William,  by 
refusing  to  let  him  see  Jackie,  you  are  doing  all  you 
can  to  bring  about  the  meeting  that  you  wish  to  avoid. 
Is  he  much  about  here?" 

"Yes,  miss,  he  seems  hardly  ever  out  of  the  street, 
and  it  do  look  so  bad  for  the  'ouse.  I  do  feel  that 
ashamed.  Since  I've  been  with  you,  miss,  I  don't 
think  you've  'ad  to  complain  of  followers." 

"Well,  don't  you  see,  you  foolish  girl,  that  he'll 
remain  hanging  about,  and  the  moment  Parsons  comes 
back  he'll  hear  of  it.  You'd  better  see  to  this  at 
once." 

"Whatever  you  says,  miss,  always  do  seem  right, 
some  'ow.  What  you  says  do  seem  that  reasonable, 
and  yet  I  don't  know  how  to  bring  myself  to  go  to  'im. 
I  told  'im  that  I  didn't  want  no  truck  with  'im." 

"Yes,  I  think  you  said  so.     It  is  a  delicate  matter  to 


ESTHER     WATERS  265 

advise  anyone  in,  but  I  feel  sure  I  am  right  when  I 
say  that  you  have  no  right  to  refuse  to  allow  him  to 
do  something  for  the  child.  Jackie  is  now  eight  years 
old,  you've  not  the  means  of  giving  him  a  proper  edu- 
cation, and  you  know  the  disadvantage  it  has  been  to 
you  not  to  know  how  to  read  and  write." 

"Jackie  can  read  beautifully — Mrs.  Lewis  'as  taught 
him." 

"Yes,  Esther;  but  there's  much  besides  reading  and 
writing.  Think  over  what  I've  said;  you're  a  sensible 
girl ;  think  it  out  when  you  go  to  bed  to-night. ' ' 

Next  day,  seeing  William  in  the  street,  she  went 
upstairs  to  ask  Miss  Rice's  permission  to  go  out. 
"Could  you  spare  me,  miss,  for  an  hour  or  so?"  was  all 
she  said.  Miss  Rice,  who  had  noticed  a  man  loitering, 
replied,  "Certainly,  Esther." 

"You  aren't  afraid  to  be  left  in  the  house  alone, 
miss?     I  shan't  be  far  awa3^" 

"No.  I  am  expecting  Mr.  Alden.  I'll  let  him  in, 
and  can  make  the  tea  myself. " 

Esther  ran  up  the  area  steps  and  walked  quickly 
down  the  street,  as  if  she  were  going  on  an  errand. 
William  crossed  the  road  and  was  soon  alongside  of  her. 

"Don't  be  so  'ard  on  a  chap,"  he  said.  "Just  listen 
to  reason." 

"I  don't  want  to  listen  to  you;  you  can't  have  much 
to  say  that  I  care  for. ' ' 

Her  tone  was  still  stubborn,  but  he  perceived  that  it 
contained  a  change  of  humour. 

"Come  for  a  little  walk,  and  then,  if  you  don't  agree 
with  what  I  says,  I'll  never  come  after  you  again." 

"You  must  take  me  for  a  fool  if  you  think  I'd  pay 
attention  to  your  promises." 


266  ESTHER    WATERS 

"Esther,  hear  me  out;  you're  very  unforgiving,  but 
if  you'd  hear  me  out " 

''You  can  speak;  no  one's  preventing  you  that  I  can 
see." 

"I  can't  say  it  off  like  that;  it  is  a  long  story.  I 
know  that  I've  behaved  badly  to  you,  but  it  wasn't  as 
much  my  fault  as  you  think ;  I  could  explain  a  good  lot 
of  it." 

"I  don't  care  about  your  explanations.  If  you've 
only  got  explanations " 

'•There's  that  boy." 

"Oh,  it  is  the  boy  you're  thinking  of?" 

"Yes,  and  you  too,  Esther.  The  mother  can't  be 
separated  from  the  child. ' ' 

"Very  likely;  the  father  can,  though." 

"If  you  talk  that  snappish  I  shall  never  get  out  what 
I've  to  say.  I've  treated  you  badly,  and  it  is  to  make 
up  for  the  past  as  far  as  I  can ' ' 

"And  how  do  you  know  that  you  aren't  doing  harm 
by  coming  after  me?" 

"You  mean  you're  keeping  company  with  a  chap 
and  don't  want  me?" 

"You  don't  know  I'm  not  a  married  woman;  you 
don't  know  what  kind  of  situation  I'm  in.  You  comes 
after  me  just  because  it  pleases  your  fancy,  and  don't 
give  it  a  thought  that  you  mightn't  get  me  the  sack,  as 
you  got  it  me  before. " 

"There's  no  use  nagging;  just  let's  go  where  we  can 
have  a  talk,  and  then  if  you  aren't  satisfied  you  can  go 
your  way  and  I  can  go  mine.  You  said  I  didn't  know 
that  you  wasn't  married.  I  don't,  but  if  you  aren't,  so 
much  the  better.  If  you  are,  you've  only  to  say  so 
and    I'll    take   my    hook.      I've    done    quite    enough 


ESTHER    WATERS  267 

harm,   without   coming  between  you   and   your   hus- 
band." 

William  spoke  earnestly,  and  his  w^ords  came  so  evi- 
dently from  his  heart  that  Esther  was  touched  against 
her  will. 

"No,  I  ain't  married  yet,"  she  replied. 

"I'm  glad  of  that." 

"I  don't  see  what  odds  it  can  make  to  you 
whether  I'm  married  or  not.  If  I  ain't  married,  you 
are. ' ' 

William  and  Esther  walked  on  in  silence,  listening 
to  the  day  as  it  hushed  in  quiet  suburban  murmurs. 
The  sky  was  almost  colourless — a  faded  grey,  that 
passed  into  an  insignificant  blue ;  and  upon  this  almost 
neutral  tint  the  red  suburb  appeared  in  rigid  outline, 
like  a  carving.  At  inter^^als  the  wind  raised  a  cloud 
of  dust  in  the  roadway.  Stopping  before  a  piece  of 
waste  ground,  William  said — 

"Let's  go  in  there;  we'll  be  able  to  talk  easier." 
Esther  raised  no  objection.  They  went  in  and  looked 
for  a  place  where  they  could  sit  down. 

"This  is  just  like  old  times,"  said  William,  moving  a 
little  closer. 

"If  you  are  going  to  begin  any  of  that  nonsense  I'll 
get  up  and  go.  I  only  came  out  with  you  because  you 
said  you  had  something  particular  to  say  about  the 
child." 

"Well,  it  is  only  natural  that  I  should  like  to  see  my 
son." 

"How  do  you  know  it's  a  son?" 

"I  thought  you  said  so.  I  should  like  it  to  be  a  boy 
—is  it?" 

"Yes,  it  is  a  boy,  and  a  lovely  boy  too;  very  differ- 


268  ESTHER    WATERS 

ent  to  his  father.  I've  always  told  him  that  his  father 
is  dead." 

"And  is  he  sorry?" 

"Not  a  bit.  I've  told  him  his  father  wasn't  good  to 
me;  and  he  don't  care  for  those  who  haven't  been  good 
to  his  mother." 

"I  see,  you've  brought  him  up  to  hate  me?" 

"He  don't  know  nothing  about  you — how  should  'e?" 

"Very  likely;  but  there's  no  need  to  be  that  par- 
ticular nasty.  As  I've  said  before,  what's  done  can't 
be  undone.  I  treated  you  badly,  I  know  that,  and 
I've  been  badly  treated  myself — damned  badly  treated. 
You've  'ad  a  'ard  time;  so  have  I,  if  that's  any  comfort 
to  ye." 

"I  suppose  it  is  wrong  of  me,  but  seeing  you  has 
brought  up  a  deal  of  bitterness,  more  than  I  thought 
there  was  in  me." 

William  lay  at  length,  his  body  resting  on  one  arm. 
He  held  a  long  grass  stalk  between  his  small,  discol- 
oured teeth.  The  conversation  had  fallen.  He  looked 
at  Esther;  she  sat  straight  up,  her  stiff  cotton  dress 
spread  over  the  rough  grass;  her  cloth  jacket  was 
unbuttoned.  He  thought  her  a  nice-looking  woman, 
and  he  imagined  her  behind  the  bar  of  the  "King's 
Head."  His  marriage  had  proved  childless  and  in 
every  way  a  failure ;  he  now  desired  a  wife  such  as  he 
felt  sure  she  would  be,  and  his  heart  hankered  sorely 
after  his  son.  He  tried  to  read  Esther's  quiet,  sub- 
dued face.  It  was  graver  than  usual,  and  betrayed 
none  of  the  passion  that  choked  in  her.  She  must 
manage  that  the  men  should  not  meet.  But  how 
should  she  rid  herself  of  him?  She  noticed  that  he  was 
looking  at  her,  and  to  lead  his  thoughts  away  from 


ESTHER    WATERS  269 

herself  she  asked  him  where  he  had  gone  with  his  wife 
when  they  left  Woodview.  Breaking  off  suddenly,  he 
said — 

"Peggy  knew  all  the  time  I  was  gone  on  you." 

"It  don't  matter  about  that.  Tell  me  where  you 
went — they  said 'you  went  foreign." 

"We  first  went  to  Boulogne,  that's  in  France;  but 
nearly  everyone  speaks  English  there,  and  there  was 
a  nice  billiard  room  handy,  where  all  the  big  betting 
men  came  in  of  an  evening.  We  went  to  the  races.  I 
backed  three  winners  on  the  first  day — the  second  I 
didn't  do  so  well.  Then  we  went  on  to  Paris.  The 
race-meetings  is  very  'andy — I  will  say  that  for  Paris 
— half-an-hour's  drive  and  there  you  are." 

"Did  your  wife  like  Paris?" 

"Yes,  she  liked  it  pretty  well— it  is  all  the  place  for 
fashion,  and  the  shops  is  grand ;  but  she  got  tired  of  it 
too,  and  we  went  to  Italy." 

"Where's  that?" 

"That's  down  south.  A  beast  of  a  place— nothing 
but  sour  wine,  and  all  the  cookery  done  in  oil,  and 
nothing  to  do  but  seeing  picture-galleries.  I  got  that 
sick  of  it  I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  I  said,  'I've 
'ad  enough  of  this.  I  want  to  go  home,  where  I  can 
get  a  glass  of  Burton  and  a  cut  from  the  joint,  and 
where  there's  a  horse  worth  looking  at.'  " 

"But  she  was  very  fond  of  you.  She  must  have 
been." 

' '  She  was,  in  her  way.  But  she  always  liked  talking 
to  the  singers  and  the  painters  that  we  met  out  there. 
Nothing  wrong,  you  know.  That  was  after  we  had 
been  married  about  three  years. ' ' 

"What  was  that?" 


270  ESTHER    WATERS 

*'That  I  caught  her  out." 

*'How  do  you  know  there  was  anything  wrong? 
Men  always  think  bad  of  women." 

'*No,  it  was  right  enough;  she  had  got  dead  sick  of 
me,  and  I  had  got  dead  sick  of  her.  It  never  did  seem 
natural  like.  There  was  no  'omeliness  in  it,  and  a 
marriage  that  ain't  'omely  is  no  marriage  for  me.  Her 
friends  weren't  my  friends;  and  as  for  my  friends,  she 
never  left  off  insulting  me  about  them.  If  I  was  to 
ask  a  chap  in  she  wouldn't  sit  in  the  same  room  with 
him.  That's  what  it  got  to  at  last.  And  I  was  always 
thinking  of  you,  and  your  name  used  to  come  up  when 
we  was  talking.  One  day  she  said,  'I  suppose  you  are 
sorry  3^ou  didn't  marry  a  servant?'  and  I  said,  *I  sup- 
pose you  are  sorry  you  did?'  " 

*'That  was  a  good  one  for  her.  Did  she  say  she 
was?" 

"She  put  her  arms  round  my  neck  and  said  she  loved 
none  but  her  big  Bill.  But  all  her  flummery  didn't 
take  me  in.  And  I  says  to  myself,  'Keep  an  eye  on 
her. '  For  there  was  a  young  fellow  hanging  about  in 
a  manner  I  didn't  particularly  like.  He  was  too  anx- 
ious to  be  polite  to  me,  he  talked  to  me  about  'orses, 
and  I  could  see  he  knew  nothing  about  them.  He 
even  went  so  far  as  go  down  to  Kempton  with  me." 

"And  how  did  it  all  end?" 

"I  determined  to  keep  my  eye  on  this  young 
whipper-snapper,  and  come  up  from  Ascot  by  an 
earlier  train  than  they  expected  me.  I  let  myself  in 
and  ran  up  to  the  drawing-room.  They  were  there 
sitting  side  by  side  on  the  sofa.  I  could  see  they  were 
very  much  upset.  The  young  fellow  turned  red,  and 
he  got  up,  stammering,  and  speaking  a  lot  of  rot. 


ESTHER     WATERS  2^\ 

**  *What!  you  back  already?  How  did  you  get  on  at 
Ascot?     Had  a  good  day?' 

"'Rippin';  but  I'm  going  to  have  a  better  one 
now,'  I  said,  keeping  my  eye  all  the  while  on  my 
wife.  I  could  see  by  her  face  that  there  was  no  doubt 
about  it.  Then  I  took  him  by  the  throat.  *I  just  give 
you  two  minutes  to  confess  the  truth ;  I  know  it,  but  I 
want  to  hear  it  from  you.  Now,  out  with  it,  or  I'll 
strangle  you.'  I  gave  him  a  squeeze  just  to  show 
him  that  I  meant  it.  He  turned  up  his  eyes,  and 
my  wife  cried,  'Murder!'  I  threw  him  back  from 
me  and  got  between  her  and  the  door,  locked  it,  and 
put  the  key  in  my  pocket.  'Now,'  I  said,  'I'll  drag 
the  truth  out  of  you  both.'  He  did  look  white,  he 
shrivelled  up  by  the  chimney-piece,  and  she — well,  she 
looked  as  if  she  could  have  killed  me,  only  there  was 
nothing  to  kill  me  with.  I  saw  her  look  at  the  fire- 
irons.  Then,  in  her  nasty  sarcastic  way,  she  said, 
'There's  no  reason,  Percy,  why  he  shouldn't  know. 
Yes,'  she  said,  'he  is  my  lover;  you  can  get  your 
divorce  when  you  like. ' 

"I  was  a  bit  taken  aback;  my  idea  was  to  squeeze  it 
all  out  of  the  fellow  and  shame  him  before  her.  But 
she  spoilt  my  little  game  there,  and  I  could  see  by  her 
eyes  that  she  knew  that  she  had.  'Now,  Percy,'  she 
said,  'we'd  better  go.'  That  put  my  blood  up.  I 
said,  'Go  you  shall,  but  not  till  I  give  you  leave,'  and 
without  another  word  I  took  him  by  the  collar  and  led 
him  to  the  door;  he  came  like  a  lamb,  and  I  sent  him 
off  with  as  fine  a  kick  as  he  ever  got  in  his  life.  He 
went  rolling  down,  and  didn't  stop  till  he  got  to  the 
bottom.  You  should  have  seen  her  look  at  me ;  there 
was  murder  in  her  eyes.     If  she  could  she'd  have  killed 


a;*  ESTHER    WATERS 

me,  but  she  couldn't  and  calmed  down  a  bit.  *Let 
me  go;  what  do  you  want  me  for?  You  can  get  a 
divorce.     .     .     .     I'll  pay  the  costs.' 

"  *I  don't  think  I'd  gratify  you  so  much.  So  you'd 
like  to  marry  him,  would  you,  my  beauty?' 

**  *He's  a  gentleman,  and  I've  had  enough  of  you;  if 
you  want  money  you  shall  have  it. ' 

**I  laughed  at  her,  and  so  it  went  on  for  an  hour  or 
more.  Then  she  suddenly  calmed  down.  I  knew 
something  was  up,  only  I  didn't  know  what.  I  don't 
know  if  I  told  you  we  was  in  lodgings — the  usual  sort, 
drawing-room  with  folding  doors,  the  bedroom  at  the 
back.  She  went  into  the  bedroom,  and  I  followed, 
just  to  make  sure  she  couldn't  get  out  that  way. 
There  was  a  chest  of  drawers  before  the  door;  I 
thought  she  couldn't  move  it,  and  went  back  into  the 
sitting-room.  But  somehow  she  managed  to  move  it 
without  my  hearing  her,  and  before  I  could  stop  her 
she  was  down  the  stairs  like  lightning.  I  went  after 
her,  but  she  had  too  long  a  start  of  me,  and  the  last  I 
heard  was  the  street  door  go  bang. '  * 

The  conversation  paused.  William  took  the  stalk  he 
was  chewing  from  his  teeth,  and  threw  it  aside. 
Esther  had  picked  one,  and  with  it  she  beat  impatiently 
among  the  grass. 

*'But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  me?"  she  said. 
"If  this  is  all  you  have  brought  me  out  to  listen  to " 

"That's  a  nice  way  to  round  on  me.  Wasn't  it  you 
what  asked  me  to  tell  you  the  story?" 

"So  you've  deserted  two  women  instead  of  one, 
that's  about  the  long  and  short  of  it." 

"Well,  if  that's  what  you  think  I'd  better  be  off," 
said  William,  and  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  looking 


ESTHER    WATERS  273 

at  her.  She  sat  quite  still,  not  daring  to  raise  her 
eyes ;  her  heart  was  throbbing  violently.  Would  he  go 
away  and  never  come  back?  Should  she  answer  him 
indifferently  or  say  nothing?  She  chose  the  latter 
course.  Perhaps  it  was  the  wrong  one,  for  her  dogged 
silence  irritated  him,  and  he  sat  down  and  begged  of 
her  to  forgive  him.  He  would  wait  for  her.  Then 
her  heart  ceased  throbbing,  and  a  cold  numbness  came 
over  her  hands. 

"My  wife  thought  that  I  had  no  money,  and  could 
do  what  she  liked  with  me.  But  I  had  been  backing 
winners  all  the  season,  and  had  a  couple  of  thousand 
in  the  bank.  I  put  aside  a  thousand  for  working 
expenses,  for  I  intended  to  give  up  backing  horses  and 
go  in  for  bookmaking  instead.  I  have  been  at  it  ever 
since.  A  few  ups  and  downs,  but  I  can't  complain. 
I  am  worth  to-day  close  on  three  thousand  pounds." 

At  the  mention  of  so  much  money  Esther  raised  her 
eyes.  She  looked  at  William  steadfastly.  Her  object 
was  to  rid  herself  of  him,  so  that  she  might  marry 
another  man;  but  at  that  moment  a  sensation  of  the 
love  she  had  once  felt  for  him  sprang  upon  her  sud- 
denly. 

"I  must  be  getting  back,  my  mistress  will  be  waiting 
for  me." 

'*You  needn't  be  in  that  hurry.  It  is  quite  early. 
Besides,  we  haven't  settled  nothing  yet." 

"You've  been  telling  me  about  your  wife.  I  don't 
see  much  what  it's  got  to  do  with  me." 

"I  thought  you  was  interested  .  ,  .  that  you 
wanted  to  see  that  I  wasn't  as  much  to  blame  as  you 
thought." 

"I  must  be  getting  back,"  she  said;  "anything  else 


274  ESTHER    WATERS 

you  have  to  say  to  me  you  can  tell  me  on  the  way 
home.*' 

**Well,  it  all  amounts  to  this,  Esther;  if  I  get  a 
divorce  we  might  come  together  again.  What  do  you 
think?" 

*'I  think  you'd  much  better  make  it  up  with  her.  I 
daresay  she's  very  sorry  for  what  she's  done." 

''That's  all  rot,  Esther.  She  ain't  sorry,  and 
wouldn't  live  with  me  no  more  than  I  with  her.  We 
could  not  get  on;  what's  the  use?  You'd  better  let 
bygones  be  bygones.  You  know  what  I  mean — marry 
me." 

"I  don't  think  I  could  do  that." 

"You  like  some  other  chap.  You  like  some  chap, 
and  don't  want  me  interfering  in  your  life.  That's 
why  you  wants  me  to  go  back  and  live  with  my  wife. 
You  don't  think  of  what  I've  gone  through  with  her 
already." 

"You've  not  been  through  half  of  what  I  have.  I'll 
be  bound  that  you  never  wanted  a  dinner.     I  have. " 

"Esther,  think  of  the  child." 

"You're  a  nice  one  to  tell  me  to  think  of  the  child,  I 
who  worked  and  slaved  for  him  all  these  years." 

"Then  I'm  to  take  no  for  an  answer?" 

"I  don't  want  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  you." 

"And  you  won't  let  me  see  the  child?" 

A  moment  later  Esther  answered,  "You  can  see  the 
child,  if  you  like. ' ' 

"Where  is  he?" 

"You  can  come  with  me  to  see  him  next  Sunday,  if 
you  like.     Now  let  me  go  in. " 

"What  time  shall  I  come  for  you?" 

"About  three— a  little  after." 


XXVI. 

William  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  area ;  and  while 
pinning  on  her  hat  she  thought  of  what  she  should 
say,  and  how  she  should  act.  Should  she  tell  him  that 
she  wanted  to  marry  Fred?  Then  the  long  black  pin 
that  was  to  hold  her  hat  to  her  hair  went  through  the 
straw  with  a  little  sharp  sound,  and  she  decided  that 
when  the  time  came  she  would  know  what  to  say. 

As  he  stepped  aside  to  let  her  go  up  the  area  steps, 
she  noticed  how  beautifully  dressed  he  was.  He  wore 
a  pair  of  gre}^  trousers,  and  in  his  spick  and  span 
morning  coat  there  was  a  bunch  of  carnations. 

They  walked  some  half-dozen  yards  up  the  street  in 
silence. 

"But  why  do  you  want  to  see  the  boy?  You  never 
thought  of  him  all  these  years. ' ' 

"I'll  tell  you,  Esther.  .  .  .  But  it  is  nice  to  be 
walking  out  with  you  again.  If  you'd  only  let  bygones 
be  bygones  we  might  settle  down  together  yet.  What 
do  you  think?" 

She  did  not  answer,  and  he  continued,  "It  do  seem 
strange  to  be  walking  out  with  you  again,  meeting  you 
after  all  these  years,  and  I'm  never  in  your  neighbour- 
hood. I  just  happened  to  have  a  bit  of  business  w4th 
a  friend  who  lives  your  way,  and  was  coming  along 
from  his  'ouse,  turning  over  in  my  mind  what  he  had 
told  me  about  Rising  Sun  for  the  Steward's  Cup,  when 
I  saw  you  coming  along  w4th  the  jug  in  your  'and.     I 

275 


276  ESTHER     WATERS 

said,  'That's  the  prettiest  girl  I've  seen  this  many  a 
day;  that's  the  sort  of  girl  I'd  like  to  see  behind  the 
bar  of  the  "King's  Head."  '  You  always  keeps  your 
figure — you  know  you  ain't  a  bit  changed;  and  when  I 
caught  sight  of  those  white  teeth  I  said,  'Lor',  why, 
it's  Esther.'  " 

"I  thought  it  was  about  the  child  you  was  going  to 
speak  to  me. ' ' 

"So  I  am,  but  you  came  first  in  my  estimation. 
The  moment  I  looked  into  your  eyes  I  felt  it  had  been 
a  mistake  all  along,  and  that  you  was  the  only  one  I 
had  cared  about. ' ' 

"Then  all  about  wanting  to  see  the  child  was  a  pack 
of  lies?" 

"No,  they  weren't  lies.  I  wanted  both  mother  and 
child — if  I  could  get  'em,  ye  know.  I'm  telling  you 
the  unvarnished  truth,  Esther.  I  thought  of  the  child 
as  a  way  of  getting  you  back;  but  little  by  little  I 
began  to  take  an  interest  in  him,  to  wonder  what  he 
was  like,  and  with  thoughts  of  the  boy  came  different 
thoughts  of  you,  Esther,  who  is  the  mother  of  my  boy. 
Then  I  wanted  you  both  back;  and  I've  thought  of 
nothing  else  ever  since. ' ' 

At  that  moment  they  reached  the  Metropolitan  Rail- 
way, and  William  pressed  forward  to  get  the  tickets. 
A  subterraneous  rumbling  was  heard,  and  they  ran 
down  the  steps  as  fast  as  they  could,  and  seeing  them 
so  near  the  ticket-collector  held  the  door  open  for 
them,  and  just  as  the  train  was  moving  from  the  plat- 
form William  pushed  Esther  into  a  second-class  com- 
partment. 

"We're  in  the  wrong  class,"  she  cried. 

"No,  we  ain't j   get  in,  get  in,"  he  shouted.     And 


ESTHER     WATERS  277 

with  the  guard  crying  to  him  to  desist,  he  hopped  in 
after  her,  saying,  "You  very  nearly  made  me  miss  the 
train.  What  'ud  you've  done  if  the  train  had  taken 
you  away  and  left  me  behind?" 

The  remark  was  not  altogether  a  happy  one. 

"Then  you  travel  second-class?"  Esther  said. 

"Yes,  I  always  travel  second-class  now;  Peggy 
never  would,  but  second  seems  to  me  quite  good 
enough.  I  don't  care  about  third,  unless  one  is  with  a 
lot  of  pals,  and  can  keep  the  carriage  to  ourselves. 
That's  the  way  we  manage  it  when  we  go  down  to 
Newmarket  or  Doncaster. ' ' 

They  were  alone  in  the  compartment.  William 
leaned  forward  and  took  her  hand. 

"Try  to  forgive  me,  Esther." 

She  drew  her  hand  away ;  he  got  up,  and  sat  down 
beside  her,  and  put  his  arm  around  her  waist. 

"No,  no.  I'll  have  none  of  that.  All  that  sort  of 
thing  is  over  between  us. ' ' 

He  looked  at  her  inquisitively,  not  knowing  how  to  act. 

"I  know  you've  had  a  hard  time,  Esther.  Tell  me 
about  it.  What  did  you  do  when  you  left  Wood  view?" 
He  unfortunately  added,  "Did  you  ever  meet  any  one 
since  that  you  cared  for?" 

The  question  irritated  her,  and  she  said,  "It  don't 
matter  to  you  who  I  met  or  what  I  went  through." 

The  conversation  paused.  William  spoke  about  the 
Barfields,  and  Esther  could  not  but  listen  to  the  tale  of 
what  had  happened  at  Woodview  during  the  last  eight 
years. 

Woodview  had  been  all  her  unhappiness  and  all  her 
misfortune.  She  had  gone  there  when  the  sap  of  life 
was  flowing  fastest  in  her,  and  Woodview  had  become 


2^S  ESTHER     WATERS 

the  most  precise  and  distinct  vision  she  had  gathered 
from  life.  She  remembered  that  wholesome  and 
ample  country  house,  with  its  park  and  its  down  lands, 
and  the  valley  farm,  sheltered  by  the  long  lines  of 
elms.  She  remembered  the  race-horses,  their  slight 
forms  showing  under  the  grey  clothing,  the  round 
black  eyes  looking  out  through  the  eyelet  holes  in  the 
hanging  hoods,  the  odd  little  boys  astride — a  string  of 
six  or  seven  passing  always  before  the  kitchen  win- 
dows, going  through  the  paddock  gate  under  the 
bunched  evergreens.  She  remembered  the  rejoicings 
when  the  horse  w^on  at  Goodwood,  and  the  ball  at  the 
Shoreham  Gardens.  Woodview  had  meant  too  much 
in  her  life  to  be  forgotten ;  its  hillside  and  its  people 
were  drawn  out  in  sharp  outline  on  her  mind.  Some- 
thing in  William's  voice  recalled  her  from  her  reverie, 
and  she  heard  him  say — 

**The  poor  Gaffer,  'e  never  got  over  it;  it  regular 
broke  'im  up.  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  it  was  Ginger  who 
was  riding.  It  appears  that  he  did  all  he  knew ;  he 
lost  start,  he  tried  to  get  shut  in,  but  it  warn't  no  go, 
luck  was  against  them ;  the  'orse  was  full  of  running, 
and,  of  course,  he  couldn't  sit  down  and  saw  his 
blooming  'ead  off,  right  in  th'  middle  of  the  course, 
with  Sir  Thomas's  (that's  the  'andicapper)  field- 
glasses  on  him.  He'd  have  been  warned  off  the 
blooming  'eath,  and  he  couldn't  afford  that,  even  to 
save  his  own  father.  The  'orse  won  in  a  canter:  they 
clapped  eight  stun  on  him  for  the  Cambridgeshire. 
It  broke  the  Gaffer's  'eart.  He  had  to  sell  off  his 
'orses,  and  he  died  soon  after  the  sale.  He  died  of 
consumption.  It  generally  takes  them  off  earlier ;  but 
they  say  it  is  in  the  family.     Miss  May " 


ESTHER    WATERS  279 

*'0h,  tell  me  about  her,"  said  Esther,  who  had  been 
thinking  all  the  while  of  Mrs.  Barfield  and  of  Miss 
Mary.  "Tell  me,  there's  nothing  the  matter  with 
Miss  Mary?" 

"Yes,  there  is:  she  can't  live  no  more  in  England; 
she  has  to  go  to  winter,  I  think  it  is,  in  Algeria." 

At  that  moment  the  train  screeched  along  the  rails, 
and  vibrating  under  the  force  of  the  brakes,  it  passed 
out  of  the  tunnel  into  Blackfriars. 

"We  shall  just  be  able  to  catch  the  ten  minutes  past 
four  to  Peckham, ' '  she  said,  and  they  ran  up  the  high 
steps.  William  strode  along  so  fast  that  Esther  was 
obliged  to  cry  out,  "There's  no  use,  William;  train  or 
no  train,  I  can't  walk  at  that  rate." 

There  was  just  time  for  them  to  get  their  tickets  at 
Ludgate  Hill.  They  were  in  a  carriage  by  themselves, 
and  he  proposed  to  draw  up  the  windows  so  that  they 
might  be  able  to  talk  more  easily.  He  was  interested 
in  the  ill-luck  that  had  attended  certain  horses,  and 
Esther  wanted  to  hear  about  Mrs.  Barfield. 

"You  seem  to  be  very  fond  of  her;  what  did  she  do 
for  you?" 

"Everything — that  was  after  you  went  away.  She 
was  kind." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  that,"  said  William. 

"So  they  spends  the  summer  at  Woodview  and  goes 
to  foreign  parts  for  the  winter?" 

"Yes,  that's  it.  Most  of  the  estate  was  sold;  but 
Mrs.  Barfield,  the  Saint — you  remember  we  used  to 
call  her  the  Saint — well,  she  has  her  fortune,  about 
five  hundred  a  year,  and  they  just  manage  to  live  there 
in  a  sort  of  hole-and-corner  sort  of  way.  They  can't 
afford  to  keep  a  trap,  and  towards  the  end  of  October 


28o  ESTHER    WATERS 

they  go  off  and  don't  return  till  the  beginning  of  May. 
Woodview  ain't  what  it  was.  You  remember  the 
stables  they  were  putting  up  when  Silver  Braid  won 
the  two  cups?  Well,  they  are  just  as  when  you  last 
saw  them — rafters  and  walls." 

"Racing  don't  seem  to  bring  no  luck  to  anyone.  It 
ain't  my  affair,  but  if  I  was  you  I'd  give  it  up  and  get 
to  some  honest  work. " 

"Racing  has  been  a  good  friend  to  me.  I  don't 
know  where  I  should  be  without  it  to-day. ' ' 

**So  all  the  servants  have  left  Woodview?  I  wonder 
what  has  become  of  them." 

"You  remember  my  mother,  the  cook?  She  died  a 
couple  of  years  ago. ' ' 

"Mrs.  Latch!     Oh,  I'm  so  sorry." 

"She  was  an  old  woman.  You  remember  John 
Randal,  the  butler?  He's  in  a  situation  in  Cumber- 
land Place,  near  the  Marble  Arch.  He  sometimes 
comes  round  and  has  a  glass  in  the  'King's  Head.' 
Sarah  Tucker — she's  in  a  situation  somewhere  in  town. 
I  don't  know  what  has  become  of  Margaret  Gale." 

"I  met  her  one  day  in  the  Strand.  I'd  had  nothing 
to  eat  all  day.  I  was  almost  fainting,  and  she  took  me 
into  a  public-house  and  gave  me  a  sausage." 

The  train  began  to  slacken  speed,  and  William 
said,  "This  is  Peckham. " 

They  handed  up  their  tickets,  and  passed  into  the 
air  of  an  irregular  little  street — low  disjointed  shops 
and  houses,  where  the  tramcars  tinkled  through  a 
slacker  tide  of  humanity  than  the  Londoners  were 
accustomed  to. 

"This  way,"  said  Esther.  "This  is  the  way  to  the 
Rye." 


ESTHER    WATERS  281 

"Then  Jackie  lives  at  the  Rye?" 

"Not  far  from  the  Rye.  Do  you  know  East  Dul- 
wich?" 

"No,  I  never  was  here  before." 

"Mrs.  Lewis  (that's  the  woman  who  looks  after  him) 
lives  at  East  Dulwich,  but  it  ain't  very  far.  I  always 
gets  out  here.  I  suppose  you  don't  mind  a  quarter  of 
an  hour's  walk." 

"Not  when  I'm  with  you,"  William  replied  gallantly, 
and  he  followed  her  through  the  passers-by. 

The  Rye  opened  up  like  a  large  park,  beginning  in 
the  town  and  wending  far  away  into  a  country  pros- 
pect. At  the  Peckham  end  there  were  a  dozen  hand- 
some trees,  and  under  them  a  piece  of  artificial  water 
where  boys  were  sailing  toy  boats,  and  a  poodle  was 
swimming.  Two  old  ladies  in  black  came  out  of  a 
garden  full  of  hollyhocks ;  they  walked  towards  a  seat 
and  sat  down  in  the  autumn  landscape.  And  as  Wil- 
liam and  Esther  pursued  their  way  the  Rye  seemed  to 
grow  longer  and  longer.  It  opened  up  into  a  vast 
expanse  full  of  the  last  days  of  cricket ;  it  was  charm- 
ing with  slender  trees  and  a  Japanese  pavilion  quaintly 
placed  on  a  little  mound.  An  upland  background  in 
gradations,  interspaced  with  villas,  terraces,  and  gar- 
dens, and  steep  hillside,  showing  fields  and  hayricks, 
brought  the  Rye  to  a  picturesque  and  abrupt  end. 

"But  it  ain't  nearly  so  big  as  Chester  race-course. 
A  regular  cockpit  of  a  place  is  the  Chester  course ;  and 
not  every  horse  can  get  round  it. ' ' 

Turning  to  the  right  and  leaving  the  Rye  behind 
them,  the}^  ascended  a  long,  monotonous,  and  very 
ugly  road  composed  of  artificial  little  houses,  each  set 
in  a  portion  of  very  m^etallic  garden.     These  continued 


282  BSTHER     WATERS 

all  the  way  to  the  top  of  a  long  hill,  straggling  into  a 
piece  of  waste  ground  where  there  were  some  trees  and 
a  few  rough  cottages.  A  little  boy  came  running 
towards  them,  stumbling  over  the  cinder  heaps  and  the 
tin  canisters  with  which  the  place  was  strewn,  and 
William  felt  that  that  child  was  his. 

"That  child  will  break  'is  blooming  little  neck  if  'e 
don't  take  care,"  he  remarked  tentatively. 

She  hated  him  to  see  the  child,  and  to  assert  her 
complete  ownership  she  clasped  Jackie  to  her  bosom 
without  a  word  of  explanation,  and  she  questioned  the 
child  on  matters  about  which  William  knew  nothing. 

William  stood  looking  tenderly  on  his  son,  waiting 
for  Esther  to  introduce  them.  Mother  and  child  were 
both  so  glad  in  each  other  that  they  forgot  the  fine 
gentleman  standing  by.  Suddenly  the  boy  looked 
towards  his  father,  and  she  repented  a  little  of  her 
cruelty. 

"Jackie,"  she  said,  "do  you  know  who  this  gentle- 
man is  who  has  come  to  see  you?" 

"No,  I  don't." 

She  did  not  care  that  Jackie  should  love  his 
father,  and  yet  she  could  not  help  feeling  sorry  for 
William. 

"I'm  your  father,"  said  William. 

"No,  you  ain't.     I  ain't  got  no  father.'* 

"How  do  you  know,  Jackie?" 

"Father  died  before  I  was  born;  mother  told  me." 

"But  mother  may  be  mistaken." 

"If  my  father  hadn't  died  before  I  was  bom  he'd  've 
been  to  see  us  before  this.  Come,  mother,  come  to 
tea.  Mrs.  Lewis  'as  got  hot  cakes,  and  they'll  be 
burnt  if  we  stand  talking." 


ESTHER     WATERS  283 

"Yes,  dear,  but  what  the  gentleman  says  is  quite 
true;  he  is  your  father." 

Jackie  made  no  answer,  and  Esther  said,  "I  told  you 
your  father  was  dead,  but  I  was  mistaken. 

"Won't  you  come  and  walk  with  me?"  said  William. 

"No,  thank  you;  I  like  to  w^alk  with  mother." 

"He's  always  like  that  with  strangers,"  said  Esther; 
"it  is  shyness;  but  he'll  come  and  talk  to  you  pres- 
ently, if  you  leave  him  alone." 

Each  cottage  had  a  rough  piece  of  garden,  the  yellow 
crowns  of  sunflowers  showed  over  the  broken  palings, 
and  Mrs.  Lewis's  large  face  came  into  the  window- 
pane.  A  moment  later  she  was  at  the  front  door  wel- 
coming her  visitors.  The  affection  of  her  welcome  was 
checked  when  she  saw  that  William  was  with  Esther, 
and  she  drew  aside  respectfully  to  let  this  fine  gentle- 
man pass.  When  they  were  in  the  kitchen  Esther 
said — 

"This  is  Jackie's  father." 

"What,  never  I  I  thought— but  Tm  sure  we're  very 
glad  to  seej'OU."  Then  noticing  the  fine  gold  chain 
that  hung  across  his  waistcoat,  the  cut  of  his  clothes, 
and  the  air  of  money  which  his  whole  bearing  seemed 
to  represent,  she  became  a  little  obsequious  in  her 
welcome. 

"I'm  sure,  sir,  we're  very  glad  to  see  you.  Won't 
you  sit  down?"  and  dusting  a  chair  with  her  apron, 
she  handed  it  to  him.  Then  turning  to  Esther,  she 
said — 

"Sit  yourself  down,  dear;  tea*  11  be  ready  in  a 
moment."  She  was  one  of  those  women  who, 
although  their  apron-strings  are  a  good  yard  in  length, 
preserve  a  strange  agility  of  movement  and  a  pleasant 


284  ESTHER    WATERS 

vivacity  of  speech.  "I  'ope,  sir,  we've  brought  'im  up 
to  your  satisfaction;  we've  done  the  best  we  could. 
He's  a  dear  boy.  There's  been  a  bit  of  jealousy 
between  us  on  his  account,  but  for  all  that  we  'aven't 
spoilt  him.  I  don't  want  to  praise  him,  but  he's  as 
well  behaved  a  boy  as  I  knows  of.  Maybe  a  bit  wil- 
ful, but  there  ain't  much  fault  to  find  with  him,  and  I 
ought  to  know,  for  it  is  I  that  'ad  the  bringing  up  of 
him  since  he  was  a  baby  of  two  months  old.  Jackie, 
dear,  why  don't  you  go  to  your  father?" 

He  stood  by  his  mother's  chair,  twisting  his  slight 
legs  in  a  manner  that  was  peculiar  to  him.  His  dark 
hair  fell  in  thick,  heavy  locks  over  his  small  face,  and 
from  under  the  shadow  of  his  locks  his  great  luminous 
eyes  glanced  furtively  at  his  father.  Mrs.  Lewis  told 
him  to  take  his  finger  out  of  his  mouth,  and  thus 
encouraged  he  went  towards  William,  still  twisting  his 
legs  and  looking  curiously  dejected.  He  did  not  speak 
for  some  time,  but  he  allowed  William  to  put  his  arm 
round  him  and  draw  him  against  his  knees.  Then  fix- 
ing his  eyes  on  the  toes  of  his  shoes  he  said  somewhat 
abruptly,  but  confidentially — 

"Are  you  really  my  father?  No  humbug,  you 
know,"  he  added,  raising  his  eyes,  and  for  a  moment 
looking  William  searchingly  in  the  face. 

"I'm  not  humbugging,  Jack.  I'm  your  father  right 
enough.  Don't  you  like  me?  But  I  think  you  said 
you  didn't  want  to  have  a  father?" 

Jackie  did  not  answer  this  question.  After  a 
moment's  reflection,  he  said,  "If  you  be  father,  why 
didn't  you  come  to  see  us  before?" 

William  glanced  at  Esther,  who,  in  her  turn,  glanced 
at  Mrs.  Lewis. 


ESTHER     WATERS  285 

''I'm  afraid  that's  rather  a  long  story,  Jackie.  I  was 
away  in  foreign  parts. ' ' 

Jackie  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to  hear  about 
"foreign  parts,"  and  William  awaited  the  question 
that  seemed  to  tremble  on  the  child's  lips.  But, 
instead,  he  turned  suddenly  to  Mrs.  Lewis  and 
said — 

"The  cakes  aren't  burnt,  are  they?  I  ran  as  fast  as 
I  could  the  moment  I  saw  them  coming." 

The  childish  abruptness  of  the  transition  made  them 
laugh,  and  an  unpleasant  moment  passed  away.  Mrs. 
Lewis  took  the  plate  of  cakes  from  the  fender  and 
poured  out  their  tea.  The  door  and  window  were 
open,  and  the  djdng  light  lent  a  tenderness  to  the  tea- 
table,  to  the  quiet  solicitude  of  the  mother  watching 
her  son,  knowing  him  in  all  his  intimate  habits ;  to  the 
eager  curiosity  of  the  father  on  the  other  side,  leaning 
forward  delighted  at  every  look  and  word,  thinking  it 
all  astonishing,  wonderful.  Jackie  sat  between  the 
women.  He  seemed  to  understand  that  his  chance  of 
eating  as  many  tea-cakes  as  he  pleased  had  come,  and 
he  ate  w4th  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  plate,  considering 
which  piece  he  would  havo  when  he  had  finished  the 
piece  he  had  in  his  hand.  Little  was  said — a  few 
remarks  about  the  fine  w^eather,  and  offers  to  put  out 
another  cup  of  tea.  By  their  silence  Mrs.  Lewis  began 
to  understand  that  they  had  differences  to  settle,  and 
that  she  had  better  leave  them.  She  took  her  shawl 
from  the  peg,  and  1  leaded  that  she  had  an  appoint- 
ment with  a  neighbour.  But  she  wouldn't  be  more 
than  half-an-hour;  would  they  look  after  the  house 
till  her  return?  And  William  watched  her,  thinking 
of  what  he  would  say  when  sshe  was  out  of  hearing. 


286  ESTHER    WATERS 

"That  boy  of  ours  is  a  dear  little  fellow;  you've 
been  a  good  mother,  I  can  see  that.  If  I  had  only 
known." 

"There's  no  use  talking  no  more  about  it;  what's 
done  is  done." 

The  cottage  door  was  open,  and  in  the  still  evening 
they  could  see  their  child  swinging  on  the  gate.  The 
moment  was  tremulous  with  responsibility,  and  yet  the 
words  as  they  fell  from  their  lips  seemed  accidental. 

At  last  he  said — 

"Esther,  I  can  get  a  divorce." 

"You'd  much  better  go  back  to  your  wife.  Once 
married,  always  married,  that's  my  way  of  thinking." 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  you  say  it,  Esther.  Do  you  think 
a  man  should  stop  with  his  wife  who's  been  treated  as 
I  have  been?" 

Esther  avoided  a  direct  reply.  Why  should  he  care 
about  the  child?  He  had  never  done  anything  for  him. 
.William  said  that  if  he  had  known  there  was  a  child 
he  would  have  left  his  wife  long  ago.  He  believed 
that  he  loved  the  child  iust  as  much  as  she  did,  and 
didn't  believe  in  marriage  without  children. 

"That  would  have  been  very  wrong." 

"We  ain't  getting  no  for'arder  by  discussing  them 
things,"  he  said,  interrupting  her.  "We  can't  say 
good-bye  after  this  evening  and  never  see  one  another 
again." 

"Why  not?  I'm  nothing  to  you  now;  you've  got  a 
wife  of  your  own;  you've  no  clain  upon  me;  you  can 
go  your  way  and  I  can  keep  to  mint . " 

"There's  that  child.     I  must  do  sc  mething  for  him. " 

"Well,  you  can  do  something  loi  him  without  ruining 
me. 


7sc 

ESTHER     WATERS  287 

"Ruining  you,  Esther?" 

*'Yes,  ruining  me.  I  ain't  going  to  lose  my  char- 
acter by  keeping  company  with  a  married  man.. 
You've  done  me  harm  enough  already,  and  should  be 
ashamed  to  think  of  doing  me  any  more.  You  can 
pay  for  the  bo3''s  schooling  if  you  like,  you  can  pay  for 
his  keep  too,  but  you  mustn't  think  that  in  doing  so 
you'll  get  hold  of  me  again. "  ^ 

"Do  you  mean  it,  Esther?" 

"Followers  ain't  allowed  where  1  am.  You're  a 
married  man.      I  won't  have  -it." 

"But  when  I  get  my  divorce?" 

"When  you  get  your  divorce!  I  don't  know  hov/ 
it'll  be  then.  But  here's  Mrs.  Lewis;  she's  a-scold- 
ing  of  Jackie  for  swinging  on  that  'ere  gate.  Naughty 
boy;  he's  been  told  twenty  times  not  to  swing  on  the 
gate." 

Esther  complained  that  they  had  stayed  too  long, 
that  he  had  made  her  late,  and  treated  his  questions 
about  Jackie  with  indifference.  He  might  write  if  he 
had  anything  important  to  say,  but  she  could  not  keep 
company  with  a  married  man.  William  seemed  very 
downcast.  Esther,  too,  was  unhappy,  and  she  did  not 
know  why.  She  had  succeeded  as  well  as  she  had 
expected,  but  success  had  not  brought  that  sense  of 
satisfaction  which  she  had  expected  it  would.  Her 
idea  had  been  to  keep  William  out  of  the  way  and 
hurrs'  on  her  mairiage  with  Fred.  But  this  marriage, 
once  so  ardently  desired,  no  longer  gave  her  any  pleas- 
ure. She  had  tcld  Fred  about  the  child.  He  had  for- 
given her.  But  now  she  remembered  that  men  were 
very  forgiving  b.\^ore  marriage,  but  how  did  she  know 
that  he  would  not  reproach  her  with  her  fault  the  first 
11 


288  ESTHER    WATERS 

time  they  came  to  disagree  about  anything?  Ah,  it 
was  all  misfortune.  She  had  no  luck.  She  didn't 
want  to  marry  anyone. 

That  visit  to  Dulwich  had  thoroughly  upset  her. 
She  ought  to  have  kept  out  of  William's  way — that 
man  seemed  to  have  a  power  over  her,  and  she  hated 
him  for  it.  What  did  he  want  to  see  the  child  for? 
The  child  was  nothing  to  him.  She  had  been  a  fool ; 
now  he'd  be  after  the  child;  and  through  this  fever 
of  trouble  there  raged  an  acute  desire  to  know  what 
Jackie  thought  of  his  father,  what  Mrs.  Lewis  thought 
of  William. 

And  the  desire  to  know  what  was  happening  became 
intolerable.  She  went  to  her  mistress  to  ask  for  leave 
to  go  out.  Very  little  of  her  agitation  betrayed  itself 
in  her  demeanour,  but  Miss  Rice's  sharp  eyes  had 
guessed  that  her  servant's  life  was  at  a  crisis.  She 
laid  her  book  on  her  knee,  asked  a  few  kind,  discreet 
questions,  and  after  dinner  Esther  hurried  towards  the 
Underground. 

The  door  of  the  cottage  was  open,  and  as  she  crossed 
the  little  garden  she  heard  Mrs.  Lewis  say — 

*'Now  you  must  be  a  good  boy,  and  not  go  out  in  the 
garden  and  spoil  your  new  clothes."  And  when 
Esther  entered  Mrs.  Lewis  was  giving  the  finishing 
touches  to  the  necktie  which  she  had  just  tied.  "Now 
you'll  go  and  sit  on  that  chair,  like  a  good  boy,  and 
wait  there  till  your  father  comes." 

**0h,  here's  mummie, "  cried  the  boy,  and  he  darted 
out  of  Mrs.  Lewis's  hand.  "Look  at  r  y  new  clothes, 
mummie;  look  at  them!"  And  Esthtr  saw  her  boy 
dressed  in  a  suit  of  velveteen  knicj^erbockers  with 
brass  buttons,  and  a  sky-blue  necktie. 


ESTHER     WATERS  289 

"His    father — I    mean    Mr.    Latch— came    here  on 
Thursday  morning,  and  took  him  to " 


*'Took  me  up  to  London " 

"And  brought  him  back  in  those  clothes." 
"We  went  to  such  a  big  shop  in  Oxford  Street  for 
them,  and  they  took  down  many  suits  before  they  could 
get  one  to  fit.  Father  is  that  difficult  to  please,  and  I 
thought  we  should  go  away  without  any  clothes,  and  I 
couldn't  walk  about  London  with  father  in  these  old 
things.  Aren't  they  shabby?"  he  added,  kicking  them 
contemptuously.  It  was  a  little  grey  suit  that  Esther 
had  made  for  him  with  her  own  hands. 

"Father  had  me  measured  for  another  suit,  but 
it  won't  be  ready  for  a  few  days.  Father  took  me  to 
the  Zoological  Gardens,  and  we  saw  the  lions  and 
tigers,  and  there  are  such  a  lot  of  monkeys.     There  is 

one But  what  maizes  you  look  so  cross,  mummie 

dear?     Don't  you  ev^er  go  out  with  father  in  London? 

T  r^-^on   is   such   a   beautiful   place.       And    then    we 

'^d  through  the  park  and  saw  a  lot  of  boys  sailing 

.     Father  asked  me  if  I  had  a  boat.     I  said  you 

n't  afford  to  buy  me  toys.     He  said  that  was  hard 

on  me,  and  on  the  way  back  to  the  station  we 

stof   )ed  at  a  toy-shop  and  he  bought  me  a  boat.     May 

I  sh"w  you  my  boat?" 

"'a:kie  was  too  much  occupied  with  thoughts  of  his 

to  notice  the  gloom  that  was  gathering  on  his 

i.er's  face;  Mrs.  Lewis  wished  to  call  upon  him  to 

■:-.t,  but  before  she  could  make  up  her  mind  what  to 

'   ,  he  had  brought  the  toy  from  the  table   and  was 

•"  :ng  it  into  his  mother's  hands.     "This  is  a  cutter- 

jg^d  boat,  because  it  has  three  sails  and  only  one 

mast.     Father  told  me  it  was.     He'll  be  here  in  half- 


Al 


290  ESTHER    WATERS 

an-hour;  we're  going  to  sail  the  boat  in  the  pond  on 
the  Rye,  and  if  it  gets  across  all  right  he'll  take  me  to 
the  park  where  there's  a  big  piece  of  water,  twice, 
three  times  as  big  as  the  water  on  the  Rye.  Do  you 
think,  mummie,  that  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  get  my 
boat  across  such  a  piece  of  water  as  the — I've  forgotten 
the  name.     What  do  they  call  it,  mummie?" 

*'Oh,  I  don't  know;  don't  bother  me  with  your 
boat." 

*'Oh,  mummie,  what  have  I  done  that  you  won't 
look  at  my  boat?  Aren't  you  coming  with  father  to 
the  Rye  to  see  me  sail  it?" 

*'I  don't  want  to  go  with  you.  You  want  me  no 
more.  I  can't  afford  to  give  you  boats.  .  .  . 
Come,  don't  plague  me  any  more  with  your  toy,"  she 
said,  pushing  it  away,  and  then  in  a  moment  of  con- 
vulsive passion  she  threw  the  boat  across  the  room.  It 
struck  the  opposite  wall,  its  mast  was  broken,  and  the 
sails  and  cords  made  a  tangled  little  heap.  Jackie  ran 
to  his  toy,  he  picked  it  up,  and  his  face  showed  his 
grief.  "I  shan't  be  able  to  sail  my  boat  now;  it  won't 
sail,  its  mast  and  the  sails  is  broke.  Mummie,  what 
did  you  break  my  boat  for?"  and  the  child  burst  into 
tears.     At  that  moment  William  entered. 

"What  is  the  child  crying  for?"  he  asked,  stopping 
abruptly  on  the  threshold.  There  was  a  slight  tone  of 
authority  in  his  voice  which  angered  Esther  still  more. 

"What  is  it  to  you  what  he  is  crying  for?"  she  said, 
turning  quickly  round.     "What  has  the  child  got  to  do 
with  you  that  you  should  come  down  ordering  i)eo  ' 
about  for?     A  nice  sort  of  mean  trick,  and  one  t. 
is  just  like  you.     You  beg  and  pray  of  me  to  let  3 
see  the  child,  and  when  I  do  you  come  down  here 


ESTHER     WATERS  2gi 

the  sly,  and  with  the  present  of  a  suit  of  clothes  and  a 
toy  boat  you  try  to  win  his  love  away  from  his  mother. ' ' 
''Esther,  Esther,  I  never  thought  of  getting  his  love 
from  you.  I  meant  no  harm.  Mrs.  Lewis  said  that 
he   was  looking  a  trifle    moped;    we  thought   that   a 

change  would  do  him  good,  and  so " 

"Ah!  it  was  Mrs.  Lewis  that  asked  you  to  take  him 
up  to  London.  It  is  a  strange  thing  what  a  little  money 
will  do.  Ever  since  you  set  foot  in  this  cottage  she  has 
been  curtseying  to  you,  handing  you  chairs.  I  didn't 
much  like  it,  but  I  didn't  think  that  she  would  round 
on  me  in  this  way."  Then  turning  suddenly  on  her 
old  friend,  she  said,  "Who  told  you  to  let  him  have  the 
child?  .  .  .  Is  it  he  or  I  who  pays  you  for  his 
keep?  Answer  me  that.  How  much  did  he  give  you 
— a  new  dress?" 

"Oh,  Esther,  I  am  surprised  at  you:  I  didn't  think 
it  would  come  to  accusing  me  of  being  bribed,  and 
after  all  these  years. ' '  Mrs.  Lewis  put  her  apron  to 
her  eyes,  and  Jackie  stole  over  to  his  father. 

"Tt  wasn't  I  who  smashed  the  boat,  it  was  mummie; 
r^'nt  •  in  a  passion.  I  don't  know  why  she  smashed  it. 
\  ii   n't  do  nothing." 

'  lliam  took  the  child  on  his  knee, 
he  didn't  mean  to  smash  it.     There's  a  good  boy, 
:  cry  no  more." 

.:kie  looked  at  his  father.  "Will  you  buy  me 
ler?  The  shops  aren't  open  to-day."  Then  get- 
off  his  father's  knee  he  picked  up  the  toy,  and 
ng  back  he  said,  "Could  we  mend  the  boat  some- 
?     Do  you  think  we  could?" 

•^ickie,   dear,   go   away;    leave  your  father  alone 
r\to  the  next  room, ' '  said  Mrs.  Lewis. 


^9*  BSTHER    WATERS 

*'No,  he  can  stop  here;  let  him  be,"  said  Esther. 
*'I  want  to  have  no  more  to  say  to  him,  he  can  look  to 
his  father  for  the  future."  Esther  turned  on  her  heel 
and  walked  straight  for  the  door.  But  dropping 
his  boat  with  a  cry,  the  little  fellow  ran  after 
her  and  clung  to  her  skirt  despairingly.  "No, 
mummie  dear,  you  mustn't  go;  never  mind  the 
boat;  I  love  you  better  than  the  boat — I'll  do  without 
a  boat. ' ' 

"Esther,  Esther,  this  is  all  nonsense.     Just  listen." 

"No,  I  won't  listen  to  you.  But  you  shall  listen  to 
me.  When  I  brought  you  here  last  week  you  asked  me 
in  the  train  what  I  had  been  doing  all  these  years.  I 
didn't  answer  you,  but  I  will  now.  I've  been  in  the 
workhouse. ' ' 

"In  the  workhouse!" 

"Yes,  do  that  surprise  you?" 

Then  jerking  out  her  words,  throwing  them  at  him 
as  if  they  were  half -bricks,  she  told  him  the  story  of 
the  last  eight  years — Queen  Charlotte's  hospital,  Mrs. 
Rivers,  Mrs.  Spires,  the  night  on  the  Embankment, 
and  the  workhouse. 

"And  when  I  came  out  of  the  workhouse  I  travr  :u  • 
London   in  search  of  sixteen  pounds   a  year  wag'.i. 
which  was  the  least  I  could  do  with,  and  when  I  didn't 
find  them  I  sat  here  and  ate  dry  bread.     She'!'   \  '' 
you — she  saw  it  all.     I  haven't  said  nothing  aboi 
shame  and  sneers  I  had  to  put  up  with — you  ^ 
understand  nothing  about  that, — and  there  was  . 
than   one  situation   I  was  thrown  out  of  when   -S^-i  • 
found  I  had  a  child.     For  they  didn't  like  loose  women 
in  their  houses;    I  had   them    very  words  said  ipibout 
me.     And  while  I  was  going  through  all  that  you  was 


ESTHER    WATERS  293 

living  in  riches  with  a  lady  in  foreign  parts ;  and  now 
when  she  could  put  up  with  you  no  longer,  and  you're 
kicked  out,  you  come  to  me  and  ask  for  your  share  of 
the  child.  Share  of  the  child!  What  share  is  yours, 
I'd  like  to  know?" 

"Esther!" 

•*In  your  mean,  underhand  way  you  come  here  on 
the  sly  to  see  if  you  can't  steal  the  love  of  the  child 
from  me." 

She  could  speak  no  more ;  her  strength  was  giving 
way  before  the  tumult  of  her  passion,  and  the  silence 
that  had  come  suddenly  into  the  room  was  more'ter- 
rible  than  her  violent  words.  William  stood  quaking, 
horrified,  wishing  the  earth  would  swallow  him ;  Mrs. 
Lewis  watched  Esther's  pale  face,  fearing  that  she 
would  faint ;  Jackie,  his  grey  eyes  open  round,  held  his 
broken  boat  still  in  his  hand.  The  sense  of  the  scene 
had  hardly  caught  on  his  childish  brain ;  he  was  very 
frightened;  his  tears  and  sobs  were  a  welcome  inter- 
vention. Mrs.  Lewis  took  him  in  her  arms  and  tried 
to  soothe  him.  William  tried  to  speak;  his  lips 
moved,  but  no  words  came. 

Mrs.  Lewis  whispered,  "You'll  get  no  good  out  of 
her  now,  her  temper's  up;  you'd  better  go.  She 
don't  know  what  she's  a-saying  of." 

"If  one  of  us  has  to  go,"  said  William,  taking  the 
hint,  "there  can't  be  much  doubt  which  of  us."  He 
stood  at  the  door  holding  his  hat,  just  as  if  he  were 
going  to  put  it  on.  Esther  stood  with  her  back  turned 
to  him.     At  last  he  said — 

"Good-bye,  Jackie.  I  suppose  you  don't  want  to  see 
me  again?" 

For  reply  Jackie  threw  his  boat  away  and  clung  to 


294  ESTHER    WATERS 

Mrs.  Lewis  for  protection.  William's  face  showed 
that  he  was  pained  by  Jackie's  refusal. 

*'Try  to  get  your  mother  to  forgive  me;  but  you  are 
right  to  love  her  best.  She's  been  a  good  mother  to 
you."  He  put  on  his  hat  and  went  without  another 
word.  No  one  spoke,  and  every  moment  the  silence 
grew  more  paralysing.  Jackie  examined  his  broken 
boat  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  put  it  away,  as  if  it 
had  ceased  to  have  any  interest  for  him.  There  was 
no  chance  of  going  to  the  Rye  that  day;  he  might  as 
well  take  off  his  velvet  suit ;  besides,  his  mother  liked 
him  better  in  his  old  clothes.  When  he  returned  his 
mother  was  sorry  for  having  broken  his  boat,  and 
appreciated  the  cruelty.  "You  shall  have  another 
boat,  my  darling'  "  she  said,  leaning  across  the  table 
and  looking  at  him  affectionately;  "and  quite  as  good 
as  the  one  I  broke." 

"Will  you,  mummie?  One  with  three  sails,  cutter- 
rigged,  like  that?" 

"Yes,  dear,  you  shall  have  a  boat  with  three 
sails." 

"When  will  you  buy  me  the  boat,  mummie — 
to-morrow?" 

"As  soon  as  I  can,  Jackie.*' 

This  promise  appeared  to  satisfy  him.  Suddenly  he 
looked — 

"Is  father  coming  back  no  more?V 

"Do  you  want  him  back?" 

Jackie  hesitated;  his  mother  pressed  him  for  an 
answer. 

"Not  if  you  don't,  mummie." 

"But  if  he  was  to  give  you  another  boat,  one  with 
four  sails?" 


ESTHER     WATERS  295 

*'They  don't  have  four  sails,  not  them  with  one 
mast. ' ' 

"If  he  was  to  give  you  a  boat  with  two  masts,  would 
you  take  it?" 

"I  should  try  not  to,  I  should  try  ever  so  hard." 

There  were  tears  in  Jackie's  voice,  and  then,  as 
if  doubtful  of  his  power  to  resist  temptation,  he 
buried  his  face  in  his  mother's  bosom  and  sobbed 
bitterly. 

"You  shall  have  another  boat,  my  darling." 

"I  don't  want  no  boat  at  all!  I  love  you  better  than 
a  boat,  mummie,  indeed  I  do." 

"And  w^hat  about  those  clothes?  You'd  sooner  stop 
with  me  and  wear  those  shabby  clothes  than  go  to  him 
and  wear  a  pretty  velvet  suit?" 

"You  can  send  back  the  velvet  suit." 

"Can  I?  My  darling,  mummie  will  give  you  another 
velvet  suit,"  and  she  embraced  the  child  with  all  her 
strength,  and  covered  him  with  kisses. 

"But  why  can't  I  wear  that  velvet  suit,  and  why 
can't  father  come  back?  Why  don't  you  like  father? 
You  shouldn't  be  cross  with  father  because  he  gave  me 
the  boat.     He  didn't  mean  no  harm." 

"I  think  you  like  your  father.  You  like  him  better 
than  me." 

*'Not  better  than  you,  mummie." 

**You  wouldn't  like  to  have  any  other  father  except 
your  own  real  father?" 

"How  could  I  have  a  father  that  wasn't  my  own  real 
father?" 

Esther  did  not  press  the  point,  and  soon  after  Jackie 
began  to  talk  about  the  possibility  of  mending  his  boat ; 
and  feeling  that  something  irrevocable  had  happened. 


296  ESTHER    WATERS 

Esther  put  on  her  hat  and  jacket,  and  Mrs.  Lewis  and 
Jackie  accompanied  her  to  the  station.  The  women 
kissed  each  other  on  the  platform  and  were  reconciled, 
but  there  was  a  vag-ue  sensation  of  sadness  in  the 
leave-taking  which  they  did  not  understand.  And 
Esther  sat  alone  in  a  third-class  carriage  absorbed  in 
consideration  of  the  problem  of  her  life.  The  Hfe  she 
had  dreamed  would  never  be  hers — somehow  she 
seemed  to  know  that  she  would  never  be  Fred's  wife. 
Everything  seemed  to  point  to  the  inevitableness  of 
this  end. 

She  had  determined  to  see  William  no  more,  but  he 
wrote  asking  how  she  would  like  him  to  contribute 
towards  the  maintenance  of  the  child,  and  this  could 
not  be  settled  without  personal  interviews.  Miss  Rice 
and  Mrs.  Lewis  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted  that  she 
would  marry  William  when  he  obtained  his  divorce. 
He  was  applying  himself  to  the  solution  of  this  diffi- 
culty, and  professed  himself  to  be  perfectly  satisfied 
with  the  course  that  events  were  taking.  And  when- 
ever she  saw  Jackie  he  inquired  after  his  father;  he 
hoped,  too,  that  she  had  forgiven  poor  father,  who  had 
never  meant  no  harm  at  all.  Day  by  day  she  saw 
more  clearly  that  her  instinct  was  right  in  warning  her 
not  to  let  the  child  see  William,  that  she  had  done 
wrong  in  allowing  her  feelings  to  be  overruled  by 
Miss  Rice,  who  had,  of  course,  advised  her  for  the 
best.J  But  it  was  clear  to  her  now  that  Jackie  never 
wouTd  take  kindly  to  Fred  as  a  stepfather;  that  he 
would  never  forgive  her  if  she  divided  him  from  his 
real  father  by  marr^nng  another  man.  He  would 
grow  to  dislike  his  stepfather  more  and  more;  and 
when  he  grew  older  he  would  keep  away  from  the 


ESTHER     WATERS  297 


house  on  account  of  the  presence  of  his  stepfather-  it 

would  end  by  his  going  to  live  with  him.    'hc  wouW  • 

be  lea  mto  ahfe  of  betting  and  drinking r7h"e' would  /( 

lose  her  child  if  she  married  Fred.  ii- 


XXVII. 

It  was  one  evening  as  she  was  putting  things  away  in 
the  kitchen  before  going  up  to  bed  that  she  heard  some 
one  rap  at  the  window.  Could  this  be  Fred?  Her 
heart  was  beating;  she  must  let  him  in.  The  area  was 
in  darkness ;  she  could  see  no  one. 

*'Who  is  there?"  she  cried. 

"It's  only  me.     I  had  to  see  you  to-night  on ** 

She  drew  an  easier  breath,  and  asked  him  to  come  in. 

William  had  expected  a  rougher  reception.  The 
tone  in  which  Esther  invited  him  in  was  almost 
genial,  and  there  was  no  need  of  so  many  excuses ;  but 
he  had  come  prepared  with  excuses,  and  a  few  ran  off 
his  tongue  before  he  was  aware. 

"Well,"  said  Esther,  *'it  is  rather  late.  I  was  just 
going  up  to  bed;  but  you  can  tell  me  what  you've 
come  about,  if  it  won't  take  long. ' ' 

"It  won't  take  long.  .  .  .  I've  seen  my  solicitor 
this  afternoon,  and  he  says  that  I  shall  find  it  very 
difficult  to  get  a  divorce. ' ' 

"So  you  can't  get  your  divorce?** 

"Are  you  glad?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"What  do  you  mean?  You  must  be  either  glad  or 
sorry." 

"I  said  what  I  mean.  I  am  not  given  to  telling 
lies."  Esther  set  the  large  tin  candlestick,  on  which 
a  wick  was  spluttering,  on  the  kitchen  table,  and  Wil- 

298 


ESTHER    WATERS  299 

Ham  looked  at  her  inquiringly.  She  was  always  a  bit 
of  a  myster}^  to  him.  And  then  he  told  her,  speaking 
very  quickly,  how  he  had  neglected  to  secure  proofs  of 
his  wife's  infidelity  at  the  time ;  and  as  she  had  lived  a 
circumspect  although  a  guilty  life  ever  since,  the  solic- 
itor thought  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  establish  a 
case  against  her. 

"Perhaps  she  never  was  guilty,"  said  Esther,  unable 
to  resist  the  temptation  to  irritate. 

"Not  guilty!  what  do  you  mean?  Haven't  I  told 
you  how  I  found  them  the  day  I  came  up  from  Ascot? 
.  .  .  And  didn't  she  own  up  to  it?  What  more 
proof  do  you  want?" 

"Anyway,  it  appears  you  haven't  enough;  what  are 
you  going  to  do?     Wait  until  you  catch  her  out?" 

"There  is  nothing  else  to  do,  unless "     William 

paused,  and  his  eyes  wandered  from  Esther's. 

"Unless  what?" 

"Well,  you  see  my  solicitors  have  been  in  communi- 
cation with  her  solicitors,  and  her  solicitors  say  that  if 
it  were  the  other  way  round,  that  if  I  gave  her  reason 
to  go  against  me  for  a  divorce,-  she  would  be  glad  of 
the  chance.  That's  all  they  said  at  first,  but  since 
then  I've  seen  my  wife,  and  she  says  that  if  I'll  give 
her  cause  to  get  a  divorce  she'll  not  only  go  for  it,  but 
will  pay  all  the  legal  expenses;  it  won't  cost  us  a 
penny.     What  do  you  think,  Esther?" 

"I    don't    know    that   I    understand.      You    don't 


mean- 


"You  see,  Esther,  that  to  get  a  divorce— there's  no 
one  who  can  hear  us,  is  there?" 

"No,  there's  no  one  in  the  'ouse  except  me  and  the 
missus,  and  she's  in  the  study  reading.     Go  on." 


300  ESTHER     WATERS 

"It  seems  that  one  of  the  parties  must  go  and  live 
with  another  party  before  either  can  get  a  divorce. 
Do  you  understand?" 

"You  don't  mean  that  you  want  me  to  go  and  live 
with  you,  and  perhaps  get  left  a  second  time?" 

"That's  all  rot,  Esther,  and  you  knows  it." 

"If  that's  all  you've  got  to  say  to  me  you'd  better 
take  your  hook. ' ' 

"Do  you  see,  there's  the  child  to  consider?  And 
you  know  well  enough,  Esther,  that  you've  nothing  to 
fear;  you  knows  as  well  as  can  be  that  I  mean  to  run 
straight  this  time.  So  I  did  before.  But  let  bygones 
be  bygones,  and  I  know  you'd  like  the  child  to  have  a 
father;  so  if  only  for  his  sake " 

"For  his  sake!  I  like  that;  as  if  I  hadn't  done 
enough  for  him.  Haven't  I  worked  and  slaved  myself 
to  death  and  gone  about  in  rags?  That's  what  that 
child  has  cost  me.  Tell  me  what  he's  cost  you.  Not 
a  penny  piece — a  toy  boat  and  a  suit  of  velveteen 
knickerbockers, — and  yet  you  come  telling  me — I'd  like 
to  know  what's  expected  of  me.  Is  a  woman  never  to 
think  of  herself?  Do  I  count  for  nothing?  For  the 
child's  sake,  indeed!  Now,  if  it  was  anyone  else  but 
you.  Just  tell  me  where  do  I  come  in?  That's  what  I 
want  to  know.  I've  played  the  game  long  enough. 
Where  do  I  come  in?     That's  what  I  want  to  know. " 

"There's  no  use  flying  in  a  passion,  Esther.  I  know 
you've  had  a  hard  time.  I  know  it  was  all  very 
unlucky  from  the  very  first.  But  there's  no  use  saying 
that  you  might  get  left  a  second  time,  for  you  know 
well  enough  that  that  ain't  true.  Say  you  won't  do  it ; 
you're  a  free  woman,  you  can  act  as  you  please.  It 
would   be   unjust    to    ask   you   to   give   up   anything 


ESTHER     WATERS  S^l 

more  for  the  child;  I  agree  with  you  in  all  that. 
But  don't  fly  in  a  rage  with  me  because  I  came  to 
tell  you  there  was  no  other  way  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty." 

*'You  can  go  and  live  with  another  woman,  and  get 
a  divorce  that  way." 

**Yes,  I  can  do  that;  but  I  first  thought  I'd  speak  to 
you  on  the  subject.  For  if  I  did  go  and  live  with 
another  woman  I  couldn't  very  well  desert  her  after 
getting  a  divorce. ' ' 

"You  deserted  me." 

*'Why  go  back  on  that  old  story?" 

"It  ain't  an  old  story,  it's  the  story  of  my  life,  and  I 
haven't  come  to  the  end  of  it  yet." 

"But  you'll  have  got  to  the  end  of  it  if  you'll  do 
what  I  say. ' ' 

A  moment  later  Esther  said— 

"I  don't  know  what  you  want  to  get  a  divorce  for  at 
all.  I  daresay  your  wife  would  take  you  back  if  you 
were  to  ask  her. ' ' 

"She's  no  children,  and  never  will  have  none,  and 
marriage  is  a  poor  look-out  without  children — all  the 
worry  and  anxiety  for  nothing.  What  do  we  marry  for 
but  children?  There's  no  other  happiness.  I've  tried 
everything  else " 

"But  I  haven't." 

"I  know  all  that.  I  know  youVe  had  a  damned  hard 
time,  Esther.  I've  had  a  good  week  at  Doncaster,  and 
have  enough  money  to  buy  my  partner  out;  we  shall 
'ave  the  'ouse  to  ourselves,  and,  working  together,  I 
don't  think  we'll  'ave  much  difficulty  in  building  it  up 
into  a  very  nice  property,  all  of  which  will  in  time  go 
to  the  boy.     I'm  doing  pretty  well,  I  told  you,  in  the 


302  ESTHER     WATERS 

betting  line,  but  if  you  like  I'll  give  it  up.  I'll  never 
lay  or  take  the  odds  again.  I  can't  say  more,  Esther, 
can  I?  Come,  say  yes,"  he  said,  reaching  his  arm 
towards  her. 

"Don't  touch  me,"  she  said  surlily,  and  drew  back  a 
step  with  an  air  of  resolution  that  made  him  doubt  if 
he  w^ould  be  able  to  persuade  her. 

*'Now,    Esther "      William    did   not   finish.      It 

seemed  useless  to  argue  with  her,  and  he  looked  at  the 
great  red  ash  of  the  tallow  candle. 

"You  are  the  mother  of  my  boy,  so  it  is  different; 
but  to  advise  me  to  go  and  live  with  another  woman! 
I  shouldn't  have  thought  it  of  a  religious  girl  like 
you." 

"Religion!  There's  very  little  time  for  religion  in 
the  places  I've  had  to  work  in."  Then,  thinking  of 
Fred,  she  added  that  she  had  returned  to  Christ,  and 
hoped  He  would  forgive  her.  William  encouraged  her 
to  speak  of  herself,  remarking  that,  chapel  or  no 
chapel,  she  seemed  just  as  severe  and  particular  as 
ever.  "If  you  won't,  I  can  only  sa}^  I  am  sorry;  but 
that  shan't  prevent  me  from  paying  you  as  much  a 
week  as  you  think  necessary  for  Jack's  keep  and  his 
schooling.  I  don't  want  the  boy  to  cost  you  anything. 
I'd  like  to  do  a  great  deal  more  for  the  boy,  but  I  can't 
do  more  unless  you  make  him  my  child." 

"And  I  can  only  do  that  by  going  away  to  live  with 
you?"  The  words  brought  an  instinctive  look  of 
desire  into  her  eyes. 

"In  six  months  we  shall  be  man  and  wife.  .  .  . 
Say  yes. '  * 

"I  can't.     .     .     .     I  can't,  don't  ask  me. '• 

"You're  afraid  to  trust  me,  is  that  it?" 


ESTHER     WATERS  3^3 

Esther  did  not  answer. 

"I  can  make  that  all  right:  Til  settle  ^^500  on  you 
and  the  child." 

She  looked  up ;  the  same  look  was  in  her  eyes,  only 
modified,  softened  by  some  feeling  of  tenderness 
which  had  come  into  her  heart. 

He  put  his  arm  round  her ;  she  was  leaning  against 
the  table ;  he  was  sitting  on  the  edge. 

*'You  know  that  I  mean  to  act  rightly  by  you.** 

"Yes,  I  think  you  do." 

"Then  say  yes." 

*'I  can't — it  is  too  late." 

"There's  another  chap?" 

She  nodded. 

"I  thought  as  much.     Do  you  care  for  him?'* 

She  did  not  answer. 

He  drew  her  closer  to  him;  she  did  not  resist;  he 
could  see  that  she  was  weeping.  He  kissed  her  on  her 
neck  first,  and  then  on  her  face ;  and  he  continued  to 
ask  her  if  she  loved. the  other  chap.  At  last  she  signi- 
fied that  she  did  not. 

"Then  say  yes."  She  murmured  that  she  could 
not.  "You  can,  you  can,  you  can."  He  kissed  her, 
all  the  while  reiterating,  "You  can,  you  can,  you  can," 
until  it  became  a  sort  of  parrot  cry.  Several  minutes 
elapsed,  and  the  candle  began  to  splutter  in  its  socket. 
She  said — 

"Let  nie  go;  let  me  light  the  gas." 

As  she  sought  for  the  matches  she  caught  sight  of 
the  clock. 

"I  did  not  know  it  w^as  so  late." 
"Say  yes  before  I  go." 

"I  can't." 


304  ESTHER    WATERS 

And  it  was  impossible  to  extort  a  promise  from  her. 
**I'm  too  tired,"  she  said,  "let  me  go." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  and  said, 
** My  own  little  wife." 

As  he  went  up  the  area  steps  she  remembered  that 
he  had  used  the  same  words  before.  She  tried  to 
think  of  Fred,  but  William's  great  square  shoulders 
had  come  between  her  and  this  meagre  little  man. 
She  sighed,  and  felt  once  again  that  her  will  was  over- 
borne by  a  force  which  she  could  not  control  or  under- 
i^^and. 


XXVIII. 

She  went  round  the  house  bolting  and  locking-  the 
doors,  seeing  that  everything  was  made  fast  for  the 
night.  At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  painful  thoughts  came 
upon  her,  and  she  drew  her  hand  across  her  eyes ;  for 
she  was  w^helmed  with  a  sense  of  sorrow,  of  purely 
mental  misery,  which  she  could  not  understand,  and 
which  she  had  not  strength  to  grapple  with.  She  was, 
however,  conscious  of  the  fact  that  life  was  proving  too 
strong  for  her,  that  she  could  make  nothing  of  it,  and 
she  thought  that  she  did  not  care  much  what  happened! 
She  had  fought  with  adverse  fate,  and  had  conquered 
in  a  way ;  she  had  won  countless  victories  over  herself, 
and  now  found  herself  without  the  necessary  strength 
for  the  last  battle ;  she  had  not  even  strength  for  blame, 
and  merely  wondered  why  she  had  let  William  kiss  her. 
She  remembered  how  she  had  hated  him,  and  now  she 
hated  him  no  longer.  She  ought  not  to  have  spoken  to 
him ;  above  all,  she  ought  not  to  have  taken  him  to  see 
the  child.     But  how  could  she  help  it? 

She  slept  on  the  same  landing  as  Miss  Rice,  and  was 
moved  by  a  sudden  impulse  to  go  in  and  tell  her  the 
story  of  her  trouble.  But  what  good?  No  one  could 
help  her.  She  liked  Fred ;  they  seemed  to  suit  each 
other,  and  she  could  have  made  him  a  good  wife  if  she 
had  not  met  William.  She  thought  of  the  cottage  at 
Mortlake,  and  their  lives  in  it;  and  she  sought  to 
stimulate   her  liking  for  him   with   thoughts   of    the 

305 


3o6  ESTHER    WATERS 

meeting-house ;  she  thought  even  of  the  simple  black 
dress  she  would  wear,  and  that  life  seemed  so  natural 
to  her  that  she  did  not  understand  why  she  hesitated. 
.  .  .  If  she  were  to  marry  William  she  would  go  to 
the  ^'King's  Head."  She  would  stand  behind  the  bar; 
she  would  serve  the  customers.  She  had  never  seen 
much  life,  and  felt  somehow  that  she  would  like  to  see 
a  little  life ;  there  would  not  be  much  life  in  the  cot- 
tage at  Mortlake;  nothing  but  the  prayer-meeting. 
She  stopped  thinking,  surprised  at  her  thoughts.  She 
had  never  thought  like  that  before;  it  seemed  as  if 
some  other  woman  whom  she  hardly  knew  was  thinking 
for  her.  She  seemed  like  one  standing  at  cross-roads, 
unable  to  decide  which  road  she  would  take.  If  she 
took  the  road  leading  to  the  cottage  and  the  prayer- 
meeting  her  life  would  henceforth  be  secure.  She 
could  see  her  life  from  end  to  end,  even  to  the  time 
when  Fred  would  come  and  sit  by  her,  and  hold  her 
hand  as  she  had  seen  his  father  and  mother  sitting 
side  by  side.  If  she  took  the  road  to  the  public-house 
and  the  race-course  she  did  not  know  what  might  not 
happen.  But  William  had  promised  to  settle  ;^5oo 
on  her  and  Jackie.  Her  life  would  be  secure  either 
way. 

She  must  marry  Fred ;  she  had  promised  to  marry 
him ;  she  wished  to  be  a  good  woman ;  he  would  give 
her  the  life  she  was  most  fitted  for,  the  life  she  had 
always  desired;  the  life  of  her  father  and  mother,  the 
life  of  her  childhood.  She  would  marry  Fred,  only — 
something  at  that  moment  seemed  to  take  her  by  the 
throat.  William  had  come  between  her  and  that  life. 
If  she  had  not  met  him  at  Woodview  long  ago;  if  she 
had  not  met  him  in  the  Pembroke  Road  that  night  she 


ESTHER     WATERS  307 

went  to  fetch  the  beer  for  her  mistress's  dinner,  how 
different  everything  would  have  been!  .  .  .  If  she 
had  met  him  only  a  few  months  later,  when  she  was 
Fred's  wife! 

Wishing  she  might  go  to  sleep,  and  awake  the  wife 
of  one  or  the  other,  she  fell  asleep  to  dream  of  a  hus- 
band possessed  of  the  qualities  of  both,  and  a  life  that  ^ 
was  neither  all  chapel  nor  all  public-house.  But  soon 
the  one  became  two,  and  Esther  awoke  in  terror^ 
believing  she  had  married  them  both.  •^ 


/, 


XXIX. 

If  Fred  had  said,  "Come  away  with  me,"  Esther 
would  have  obeyed  the  elemental  romanticism  which 
is  so  fixed  a  principle  in  woman's  nature.  But  when 
she  called  at  the  shop  he  only  spoke  of  his  holiday,  of 
the  long  walks  he  had  taken,  and  the  religious  and 
political  meetings  he  had  attended.  Esther  listened 
vaguely;  and  there  was  in  her  mind  unconscious  regret 
that  he  was  not  a  little  different.  Little  irrelevant 
thoughts  came  upon  her.  She  would  like  him  better 
if  he  wore  coloured  neckties  and  a  short  jacket;  she 
wished  half  of  him  away — his  dowdiness,  his  sandy- 
coloured  hair,  the  vague  eyes,  the  black  neckties,  the 
long  loose  frock-coat.  But  his  voice  was  keen  and 
ringing,  and  when  listening  her  heart  always  went  out 
to  him,  and  she  felt  that  she  might  fearlessly  entrust 
her  life  to  him.  But  he  did  not  seem  wholly  to  under- 
stand her,  and  day  by  day,  against  her  will,  the  thought 
gripped  her  more  and  more  closely  that  she  could  not 
separate  Jackie  from  his  father.  She  would  have  to 
tell  Fred  the  whole  truth,  and  he  would  not  under- 
stand it;  that  she  knew.  But  it  would  have  to  be 
done,  and  she  sent  round  to  say  she'd  like  to  see  him 
when  he  left  business.  Would  he  step  round  about 
eight  o'clock? 

The  clock  had  hardly  struck  eight  when  she  heard  a 
tap  at  the  window.  She  opened  the  door  and  he  came 
in,  surprised  by  the  silence  with  which  she  received 
him. 

308 


ESTHER     WATERS  309 

"I  hope  nothing  has  happened.  Is  anything  the 
matter?" 

"Yes,  a  great  deal's  the  matter.  I'm  afraid  we 
shall  never  be  married,  Fred,  that's  what's  the 
matter." 

"How's  that,  Esther?  What  can  prevent  us  getting 
married?"  She  did  not  answer,  and  then  he  said, 
"You've  not  ceased  to  care  for  me?" 

"No,  that's  not  it." 

"Jackie's  father  has  come  back?" 

"You've  hit  it,  that's  what  happened." 

"I'm  sorry  that  man  has  come  across  you  again.  I 
thought  you  told  me  he  was  married.  But,  Esther, 
don't  keep  me  in  suspense;  what  has  he  done?" 

"Sit  down;  don't  stand  staring  at  me  in  that  way, 
and  I'll  tell  you  the  story." 

Then  in  a  strained  voice,  in  which  there  was  genuine 
suffering,  Esther  told  her  story,  laying  special  stress 
on  the  fact  that  she  had  done  her  best  to  prevent  him 
from  seeing  the  child. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  could  have  forbidden  him 
access  to  the  child." 

He  often  used  words  that  Esther  did  not  under- 
stand, but  guessing  his  meaning,  she  answered — 

"That's  just  what  the  missus  said;  she  argued  me 
into  taking  him  to  see  the  child.  I  knew  once  he'd 
seen  Jackie  there'd  be  no  getting  rid  of  him.  I  shall 
never  get  rid  of  him  again." 

"He  has  no  claim  upon  you.  It  is  just  like  him,  low 
blackguard  fellow  that  he  is,  to  come  after  you,  perse- 
cuting you.  But  don't  you  fear;  you  leave  him  to  me. 
I'll  find  a  way  of  stopping  his  little  game." 

Esther  looked  at  his  frail  figure. 


3IO  ESTHER     WATERS 

"You  can  do  nothing;  no  one  can  do  nothing,"  she 
said,  and  the  tears  trembled  in  her  handsome  eyes. 
"He  wants  me  to  go  away  and  live  with  him,  so  that 
his  wife  may  be  able  to  divorce  him. ' ' 

"Wants  you  to  go  away  and  live  with  him!  But 
surely,  Esther,  you  do  not " 

"Yes,  he  wants  me  to  go  and  live  with  him,  so  that 
his  wife  can  get  a  divorce,"  Esther  answered,  for  the 
suspense  irritated  her;  "and  how  can  I  refuse  to  go 
with  him?" 

"Esther,  are  you  serious?  You  cannot  .  .  . 
You  told  me  that  you  did  not  love  him,  and  after 
all "     He  waited  for  Esther  to  speak. 

"Yes,"  she  said  very  quickly,  "there  is  no  way  out 
of  it  that  I  can  see." 

"Esther,  that  man  has  tempted  you,  and  you  have 
not  prayed. ' ' 

She  did  not  answer. 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  more  of  this,"  he  said,  catch- 
ing up  his  hat.  "I  shouldn't  have  believed  it  if  I  had 
not  heard  it  from  your  lips ;  no,  not  if  the  whole  world 
had  told  me.  You  are  in  love  with  this  man,  though 
you  may  not  know  it,  and  you've  invented  this  story  as 
a  pretext  to  throw  me  over.     Good-bye,  Esther." 

"Fred,  dear,  listen,  hear  me  out.  You'll  not  go 
away  in  that  hasty  way.  You're  the  only  friend  I 
have.      Let  me  explain." 

"Explain!  how  can  such  things  be  explained?" 

"That's  what  I  thought  until  all  this  happened  to 
me.  I  have  suffered  dreadful  in  the  last  few  days. 
I've  wept  bitter  tears,  and  I  thought  of  all  you  said 
about  the  'ome  you  was  going  to  give  me."  Her  sin- 
cerity was    unmistakable,   and  Fred  doubted  her  no 


ESTHER     V:ATERS  3" 

longer.  "I'm  very  fond  of  you,  Fred,  and  if  things 
had  been  different  I  think  I  might  have  made  you  a 
ofood  wife.     But  it  wasn't  to  be. " 

"Esther,  I  don't  understand.  You  need  never  see 
this  man  again  if  you  don't  wHsh  it." 

"Xay,  nay,  things  ain't  so  easily  changed  as  all  that. 
He's  the  father  of  my  child,  he's  got  money,  and  he'll 
leave  his  money  to  his  child  if  he's  made  Jackie's 
father  in  the  eyes  of  the  law." 

"That  can  be  done  without  your  going  to  live  with 
him." 

"Not  as  he  wants.  I  know  w^hat  he  wants;  he  wants 
a  'ome,  and  he  won't  be  put  off  with  less." 

"How  men  can  be  so  wicked  as " 

"No,  you  do  him  wrong.     He  ain't  no  more  wicked 
than  another;  he's  just  one  of  the  ordinary  sort — not! 
much  better  or  worse.     If  he'd  been  a  real  bad  lot  it  I 
would  have  been  better  for  us,  for  then  he'd  never/ 
have  come  between  us.     You're  beginning  to  under-i 
stand,  Fred,   ain't  you?     If  I  don't  go  with  him  my\ 
boy'll  lose  ever5^thing.     He  wants  a  'ome — a  real  'om.e 
with  children,  and  if  he  can't  get  me  he'll  go  after,   ^ 
another  woman. "  y 

"And  are  you  jealous?" 

"No,  Fred.     But  think  if  we  was  to  marry.     As  like  ^^- 
as  not  I  should  have  children,  and  they'd  be  more  in 
your  sight  than  my  boy." 

"Esther,  I  promise  that " 

"Just  so,  Fred;  even  if  you  loved  him  like  your  own, 
you  can't  make  sure  that  he'd  love  you." 

"Jackie  and  I " 

"Ah,  yes;  he'd  have  liked  you  well  enough  if  he'd 
never   seen  his  father.      But  he's   that   keen  on  his 

V 


312  ESTHER     WATERS 

father,  and  it  would  be  worse  later  on.  He'd  never 
be  contented  in  our  'ome.  He'd  be  always  after  him, 
and  then  I  should  never  see  him,  and  he  would  be  led 
away  into  betting  and  drink." 

"If  his  father  is  that  sort  of  man,  the  best  chance  for 
Jackie  would  be  to  keep  him  out  of  his  way.  If  he 
gets  divorced  and  marries  another  woman  he  will  for- 
get all  about  Jackie." 

"Yes,  that  might  be,"  said  Esther,  and  Fred  pur- 
sued his  advantage.  But,  interrupting  him,  Esther 
said — 

"Anyway,  Jackie  would  lose  all  his  father's  money; 
the  public-house  would " 

"So  you're  going  to  live  in  a  public-house,  Esther?" 

"A  woman  must  be  with  her  husband." 

"But  he's  not  your  husband ;  he's  another  woman's 
husband." 

"He's  to  marry  me  when  he  gets  his  divorce." 

"He  may  desert  you  and  leave  you  with  another 
child." 

"You  can't  say  nothing  I  ain't  thought  of  already. 
I  must  put  up  with  the  risk.  I  suppose  it  is  a  part  of 
the  punishment  for  the  first  sin.  We  can't  do  wrong 
without  being  punished — at  least  women  can't.  But  I 
thought  I'd  been  punished  enough." 

"The  second  sin  is  worse  than  the  first.     A  married 

man,  Esther — you  who  I  thought  so  religious." 

\  '  '    **Ah,  religion  is  easy  enough  at  times,  but  there  is 

■.4    other  times  when  it  don't  seem  to  fit  in  with  one's 

'•  i   duty.     I  may  be  wrong,  but  it  seems  natural  like — he's 

the  father  of  my  child. ' ' 

"I'm  afraid  your  mind  is  made  up,  Esther.  Think 
twice  before  it's  too  late." 


BSTHER    WATERS  3^3 

"Fred,  I  can't  help  myself — can't  you  see  that? 
Don't  make  it  harder  for  me  by  talking  like  that." 

"When  are  you  going  to  him?" 

"To-night;  he's  waiting  for  me." 

"Then  good-bye,  Esther,  good " 

"But  you'll  come  and  see  us." 

"I  hope  you'll  be  happy,  Esther,  but  I  don't  think 
we  shall  see  much  more  of  each  other.  You  know  that 
I  do  not  frequent  public-houses. ' ' 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  you  might  come  and  see  main 
the  morning  when  we're  doing  no  business." 

Fred  smiled  sadly. 

"Then  you  won't  come?"  she  said. 

"Good-bye,  Esther." 

They  shook  hands,  and  he  went  out  hurriedly.  She 
dashed  a  tear  from  her  eyes,  and  went  upstairs  to  her 
mistress,  who  had  rung  for  her. 

Miss  Rice  was  in  her  easy-chair,  reading.  A  long, 
slanting  ray  entered  the  room ;  the  bead  curtain  glit- 
tered, and  so  peaceful  was  the  impression  that  Esther 
could  not  but  perceive  the  contrast  between  her  own 
troublous  life  and  the  contented  privacy  of  this  slender 
little  spinster's. 

"Well,  miss,"  she  said,  "it's  all  over.  I've  told 
him." 

"Have  you,  Esther?"  said  Miss  Rice.  Her  white, 
delicate  hands  fell  over  the  closed  volume.  She  wore 
two  little  colourless  rings  and  a  ruby  ring  which 
caught  the  light. 

"Yes,  miss,  I've  told  him  all.  He  seemed  a  good 
deal  cut  up.  I  couldn't  help  crying  myself,  for  I  could 
have  made  him  a  good  wife — I'm  sure  I  could;  but  it 
wasn't  to  be." 


314  ESTHER     WATERS 

"You've  told  him  you  were  going  off  to  live  with 
William?" 

"Yes,  miss;  there's  nothing  like  telling  the  whole 
truth  while  you're  about  it.  I  told  him  I  was  going  off 
to-night." 

"He's  a  very  religious  young  man?" 

"Yes,  miss;  he  spoke  to  me  about  religion,  but  I  told 
him  I  didn't  want  Jackie  to  be  a  fatherless  boy,  and  to 
lose  any  money  he  might  have  a  right  to.  It  don't 
look  right  to  go  and  live  with  a  married  man ;  but  you 
knows,  miss,  how  I'm  situated,  and  you  knows  that  I'm 
only  doing  it  because  it  seems  for  the  best." 

"What  did  he  say  to  that?" 

"Nothing  much,  miss,  except  that  I  might  get  left  a 
second  time — and,  he  wasn't  slow  to  add,  with  another 
child." 

"Have  you  thought  of  that  danger,  Esther?" 

"Yes,  miss,  I've  thought  of  everything;  but  think- 
ing don't  change  nothing.  Things  remain  just  the 
same,  and  you've  to  chance  it  in  the  end — leastways  a 
woman  has.  Not  on  the  likes  of  you,  miss,  but  the 
likes  of  us." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Rice  reflectively,  "it  is  always  the 
woman  who  is  sacrificed."  And  her  thought  went 
back  for  a  moment  to  the  novel  she  was  writing.  It 
seemed  to  her  pale  and  conventional  compared  with 
this  rough  page  torn  out  of  life.  She  wondered  if  she 
could  treat  the  subject.  She  passed  in  review  the 
names  of  some  writers  who  could  do  justice  to  it,  and 
then  her  eyes  went  from  her  bookcase  to  Esther. 

"So  you're  going  to  live  in  a  public-house,  Esther? 
You're  foing  to-night?  I've  paid  you  everything  I 
owe  you?" 


ESTHER     WATERS  315 

**Yes,  miss,  you  have;  you've  been  very  kind  to  me, 
indeed  you  have,  miss — I  shall  never  forget  you,  miss. 
I've  been  very  happy  in  your  service,  and  should  like 
nothing  better  than  to  remain  on  with  you." 

"All  I  can  say,  Esther,  is  that  you  have  been  a  very 
good  servant,  and  I'm  very  sorry  to  part  with  you. 
And  I  hope  you'll  remember  if  things  do  not  turn  out 
as  well  as  you  expect  them  to,  that  I  shall  always  be 
glad  to  do  anything  in  my  power  to  help  you.  You'll 
always  find  a  friend  in  me.     When  are  you  going?" 

"As  soon  as  my  box  is  packed,  miss,  and  I  shall 
have  about  finished  by  the  time  the  new  servant  comes 
in.  She's  expected  at  nine;  there  she  is,  miss — that's 
the  area  bell.     Good-bye,  miss. " 

Miss  Rice  involuntarily  held  out  her  hand.  Esther 
took  it,  and  thus  encouraged  she  said — 

"There  never  was  anyone  that  clear-headed  and 
warm-hearted  as  yerself,  miss.  I  may  have  a  lot  of 
trouble,  miss.  ...  If  I  wasn't  yer  servant  I'd  like 
to  kiss  you. '  * 

Miss  Rice  did  not  answer,  and  before  she  was  aware, 
Esther  had  taken  her  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her. 
"You're  not  angry  with  me,  miss;  I  couldn't  help 
myself. ' ' 

"No,  Esther,  I'm  not  angry." 

"I  must  go  now  and  let  her  in.  '* 

Miss  Rice  walked  towards  her  writing-table,  and  a  h 
sense  of  the  solitude  of  her  life  coming  upon  her  sud-  u 
denly  caused  her  to  burst  into  tears.     It  was  one  of 
those     moments     of     effusion     which     take     women 
unawares.     But  her  new  servant  was  coming  upstairs 
and  she  had  to  dry  her  eyes. 

Soon  after  she  heard  the  cabman's  feet  on  the  stair- 


3i6  ESTHER    WATERS 

case  as  he  went  up  for  Esther's  box.  They  brought  it 
down  together,  and  Miss  Rice  heard  her  beg  of  him  to 
be  careful  of  the  paint.  The  girl  had  been  a  good  and 
faithful  servant  to  her;  she  was  sorry  to  lose  her. 
And  Esther  was  equally  sorry  that  anyone  but  herself 
should  have  the  looking  after  of  that  dear,  kind  soul. 
But  what  could  she  do?  She  was  going  to  be  married. 
She  did  not  doubt  that  William  was  going  to  marry 
her;  and  the  cab  had  hardly  entered  the  Brompton 
Road  when  her  thoughts  were  fully  centred  in  the  life 
that  awaited  her.  This  sudden  change  of  feeling  sur- 
prised her,  and  she  excused  herself  with  the  recollec- 
tion that  she  had  striven  hard  for  Fred,  but  as  she  had 
failed  to  get  him,  it  was  only  right  that  she  should 
think  of  her  husband.  Then  quite  involuntarily  the 
thought  sprang  upon  her  that  he  was  a  fine  fellow,  and 
she  remembered  the  line  of  his  stalwart  figure  as  he 
walked  down  the  street.  There  would  be  a  parlour 
behind  the  bar,  in  which  she  would  sit.  She  would  be 
mistress  of  the  house.  There  would  be  a  servant,  a 
potboy,  and  perhaps  a  barmaid. 

The  cab  swerved  round  the  Circus,  and  she  won- 
dered if  she  were  capable  of  conducting  a  business  like 
the  "King's  Head." 

It  was  the  end  of  a  fine  September  evening,  and  the 
black,  crooked  perspectives  of  Soho  seemed  as  if  they 
were  roofed  with  gold.  A  slight  mist  was  rising,  and 
at  the  end  of  every  street  the  figures  appeared  and  dis- 
appeared mysteriously  in  blue  shadow.  She  had 
never  been  in  this  part  of  London  before;  the  adven- 
ture stimulated  her  imagination,  and  she  wondered 
where  she  was  going  and  which  of  the  many  public- 
houses  was  hers.     But  the  cabman  jingled  past  every 


ESTHER     WATERS  317 

one.  It  seemed  as  if  he  were  never  going  to  pull  up. 
At  last  he  stopped  at  the  comer  of  Dean  Street  and 
Old  Compton  Street,  nearly  opposite  a  cab  rank.  The 
cahmen  were  inside,  having  a  glass;  the  usual  vagrant 
was  outside,  looking  after  the  horses.  He  offered  to 
take  down  Esther's  box,  and  when  she  asked  him  if  he 
had  seen  Mr.  Latch  he  took  her  round  to  the  private 
bar.  The  door  was  pushed  open,  and  Esther  saw 
William  leaning  over  the  counter  wrapped  in  conver- 
sation with  a  small,  thin  man.  They  were  both  smok- 
ing, their  glasses  were  filled,  and  the  sporting  paper 
was  spread  out  before  them. 

"Oh,  so  here  you  are  at  last,"  said  William,  coming 
towards  her.     "I  expected  you  an  hour  ago." 

"The  new  ser^'ant  was  late,  and  I  couldn't  leave 
before  she  came." 

"Never  mind;  glad  you've  come." 

Esther  felt  that  the  little  man  was  staring  hard  at 
her.  He  was  John  Randal,  or  Mr.  Leopold,  as  they 
used  to  call  him  at  Barfield. 

Mr.  Leopold  shook  hands  with  Esther,  and  he  mut- 
tered a  "Glad  to  see  you  again."  But  it  was  the  wel- 
come of  a  man  who  regards  a  woman's  presence  as  an 
intrusion,  and  Esther  understood  the  quiet  contempt 
with  which  he  looked  at  William.  "Can't  keep  away 
from  them,"  his  face  sai4  for  one  brief  moment. 
William  asked  Esther  what  she'd  take  to  drink,  and 
Mr.  Leopold  looked  at  his  watch  and  said  he  must  be 
getting  home. 

"Tr}^  to  come  round  to-morrow  night  if  you've  an 
hour  to  spare." 

"Then  you  don't  think  you'll  go  to  Newmarket?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  I  shall  do  much  in  the  betting 


3i8  ESTHER    WATERS 

way  this  year.  But  come  round  to-morrow  night  if 
you  can;  you'll  find  me  here.  I  must  be  here 
to-morrow  night,"  he  said,  turning  to  Esther;  "I'll 
tell  you  presently."  Then  the  men  had  a  few  more 
words,  and  William  bade  John  good-night.  Coming 
back  to  Esther,  he  said — 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  place?  Cosy,  ain't  it?" 
But  before  she  had  time  to  reply  he  said,  "You've 
brought  me  good  luck.  I  won  two  'undred  and  fifty 
pounds  to-day,  and  the  money  will  come  in  very  'andy, 
for  Jim  Stevens,  that's  my  partner,  has  agreed  to  take 
half  the  money  on  account  and  a  bill  of  sale  for  the 
rest.  There  he  is;  I'll  introduce  you  to  him.  Jim, 
come  this  way,  will  you?" 

"In  a  moment,  when  I've  finished  drawing  this  'ere 
glass  of  beer,"  answered  a  thick- set,  short-limbed  man. 
He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  he  crossed  the  bar 
wiping  the  beer  from  his  hands. 

"Let  me  introduce  you  to  a  very  particular  friend  of 
mine,  Jim,  Miss  Waters. " 

"Very  'appy,  I'm  sure,  to  make  your  acquaintance," 
>aid  Jim,  and  he  extended  his  fat  hand  across  the 
counter.  "You  and  my  partner  are,  I  'ear,  going  to 
take  this  'ere  *ouse  off  my  hands.  Well,  you  ought  to 
make  a  good  thing  of  it.  There's  always  room  for  a 
'ouse  that  supplies  good  liquor.  What  can  I  hoffer 
you,  madam?  Some  of  our  whisky  has  been  fourteen 
years  in  bottle;  or,  being  a  lady,  perhaps  you'd  like 
to  try  some  of  our  best  unsweetened." 

Esther  declined,  but  William  said  they  could  not 
leave  without  drinking  the  health  of  the  house. 

"Irish  or  Scotch,  ma'am?  Mr.  Latch  drinks 
Scotch." 


ESTHER     WATERS  319 

Seeing-  that  she  could  not  avoid  taking  something, 
Esther  decided  that  she  would  try  the  unsweetened. 
The  glasses  were  clinked  across  the  counter,  and  Wil- 
liam whispered,  "This  isn't  what  we  sell  to  the  public; 
this  is  our  own  special  tipple.  You  didn't  notice, 
perhaps,  but  he  took  the  bottle  from  the  third  row  on 
the  left." 

At  that  moment  Esther's  cabman  came  in  and 
wanted  to  know  if  he  was  to  have  the  box  taken  down. 
William  said  it  had  better  remain  where  it  was. 

"I  don't  think  I  told  you  I'm  not  living  here;  my 
partner  has  the  upper  part  of  the  house,  but  he  says 
he'll  be  ready  to  turn  out  at  the  end  of  the  week.  I'm 
living  in  lodgings  near  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  so  we'd 
better  keep  the  cab  on." 

Esther  looked  disappointed,  but  said  nothing.  Wil- 
liam said  he'd  stand  the  cabby  a  drink,  and,  winking 
at  Esther,  he  whispered,  "Third  row^  on  the  left, 
partner." 


12 


XXX. 

The  "King's  Head"  was  an  humble  place  in  the  old- 
fashioned  style.  The  house  must  have  been  built  two 
hundred  years,  and  the  bar  seemed  as  if  it  had  been 
dug  out  of  the  house.  The  floor  was  some  inches 
lower  than  the  street,  and  the  ceiling  was  hardly  more 
than  a  couple  of  feet  above  the  head  of  a  tall  man. 
Nor  was  it  divided  by  numerous  varnished  partitions, 
according  to  the  latest  fashion.  There  were  but  three. 
The  private  entrance  was  in  Dean  Street,  where  a  few 
swells  came  over  from  the  theatre  and  called  for 
brandies-and-sodas.  There  was  a  little  mahogany 
what-not  on  the  counter,  and  Esther  served  her  cus- 
tomers between  the  little  shelves.  The  public 
entrance  and  the  jug  and  bottle  entrance  were  in  a 
side  street.  There  was  no  parlour  for  special  custom- 
ers at  the  back,  and  the  public  bar  was  inconveniently 
crowded  by  a  dozen  people.  The  "King's  Head"  was 
not  an  up-to-date  public-house.  It  had,  however,  one 
thing  in  its  favour — it  was  a  free  house,  and  William 
said  they  had  only  to  go  on  supplying  good  stuff,  and 
trade  would  be  sure  to  come  back  to  them.  For  their 
former  partner  had  done  them  much  harm  by 
systematic  adulteration,  and  a  little  way  down  the 
street  a  new  establishment,  with  painted  tiles  and 
brass  lamps,  had  been  opened,  and  was  attracting  all 
the  custom  of  the  neighbourhood.  She  was  more  anx- 
ious than  William  to  know  what  loss  the  books  showed ; 
she  was  jealous  of  the  profits  of  his  turf  account,  and 

320 


ESTHER     WATERS  321 

when  he  laughed  at  her  she  said,  *'But  you're  never 
here  in  the  daytime,  you  do  not  have  these  empty  bars 
staring  you  in  the  face  morning  and  afternoon. ' '  And 
then  she  would  tell  him :  a  dozen  pots  of  beer  about 
dinner-time,  a  few  glasses  of  bitter — there  had  been  a 
rehearsal  over  the  way — and  that  was  about  all. 

The  bars  were  empty,  and  the  public-house  dozed 
through  the  heavy  heat  of  a  summer  afternoon. 
Esther  sat  behind  the  bar  sewing,  waiting  for  Jackie  to 
come  home  from  school.  William  was  away  at  New- 
market. The  clock  struck  five  and  Jackie  peeped 
through  the  doors,  dived  under  the  counter,  and  ran 
into  his  mother's  arms. 

"Well,  did  you  get  full  marks  to-day?'* 

"Yes,  mummie,  I  got  full  marks." 

"That's  a  good  boy — and  you  want  your  tea?" 

"Yes,  mummie;  I'm  that  hungry  I  could  hardly 
walk  home." 

"Hardly  walk  home!     What,  as  bad  as  that?" 

"Yes,  mummie.  There's  a  new  shop  open  in  Oxford 
Street.  The  window  is  all  full  of  boats.  Do  you  think 
that  if  all  the  favourites  were  to  be  beaten  for  a  month, 
father  would  biiy  me  one?" 

"I  thought  you  was  so  hungry  you  couldn't  walk 
home,  dear?" 

"Well,  mummie,  so  I  was,  but " 

Esther  laughed.  "Well,  come  this  way  and  have 
your  tea."  She  went  into  the  parlour  and  rang  the 
bell. 

"Mummie,  may  I  have  buttered  toast?" 

"Yes,  dear,  you  may." 

**And  may  I  go  downstairs  and  help  Jane  to  make 
it?" 


322  ESTHER    WATERS 

"Yes,  you  can  do  that  too;  it  will  save  her  the 
trouble  of  coming  up.  Let  me  take  off  your  coat — 
give  me  your  hat;  now  run  along,  and  help  Jane  to 
make  the  toast." 

Esther  opened  a  glass  door,  curtained  with  red  silk ; 
it  led  from  the  bar  to  the  parlour,  a  tiny  room,  hardly 
larger  than  the  private  bar,  holding  with  difficulty  a 
small  round  table,  three  chairs,  an  arm-chair,  a  cup- 
board. In  the  morning  a  dusty  window  let  in  a  melan- 
choly twilight,  but  early  in  the  afternoon  it  became 
necessary  to  light  the  gas.  Esther  took  a  cloth  from 
the  cupboard,  and  laid  the  table  for  Jackie's  tea.  He 
came  up  the  kitchen  stairs  telling  Jane  how  many 
marbles  he  had  won,  and  at  that  moment  voices  were 
heard  in  the  bar. 

It  was  William,  tall  and  gaunt,  buttoned  up  in  a 
grey  frock-coat,  a  pair  of  field  glasses  slung  over  his 
shoulders.  He  was  with  his  clerk,  Fred  Blamer,  a 
feeble,  wizen- little  man,  dressed  in  a  shabby  tweed 
suit,  covered  with  white  dust. 

*'Put  that  bag  down,  Teddy,  and  come  and  have  a 
drink." 

Esther  saw  at  once  that  things  had  not  gone  well 
with  him. 

"Have  the  favourites  been  winning?" 

"Yes,  every  bloody  one.  Five  first  favourites 
straight  off  the  reel,  three  yesterday,  and  two  second 
favourites  the  day  before.  By  God,  no  man  can  stand 
up  against  it.  Come,  what'll  you  have  to  drink, 
Teddy?" 

"A  little  whisky,  please,  guv'nor. " 

The  men  had  their  drink.  Then  William  told  Teddy 
to  take  his  bag  upstairs,  and  he  followed  Esther  into 


ESTHER    WATERS  3^3 

the  parlour.  She  could  see  that  he  had  been  losing 
heavily,  but  she  refrained  from  asking  questions. 

"Now,  Jackie,  you  keep  your  father  company ;  tell 
him  how  you  got  on  at  school.  I'm  going  downstairs 
to  look  after  his  dinner. " 

"Don't  you  mind  about  my  dinner,  Esther,  don't  you 
trouble;  I  was  thinking  of  dining  at  a  restaurant.  I'll 
be  back  at  nine." 

"Then  I'll  see  nothing  of  you.  We've  hardly 
spoken  to  one  another  this  week;  all  the  day  you're 
away  racing,  and  in  the  evening  you're  talking  to  your 
friends  over  the  bar.  We  never  have  a  moment 
alone." 

"Yes,  Esther,  I  know;  but  the  truth  is,  I'm  a  bit 
down  in  the  mouth.  I've  had  a  very  bad  week.  The 
favourites  has  been  winning,  and  I  overlaid  my  book 
against  Wheatear;  I'd  heard  that  she  was  as  safe  as 
'ouses.  I'll  meet  some  pals  down  at  the  'Cri';  it  will 
cheer  me  up." 

Seeing  how  disappointed  she  was,  he  hesitated,  and 
asked  what  there  was  for  dinner.  "A  sole  and  a  nice 
piece  of  steak;  I'm  sure  you'll  like  it.  I've  a  lot  to 
talk  to  you  about.  Do  stop,  Bill,  to  please  me. ' '  She 
was  ver}"  winning  in  her  quiet,  grave  way,  so  he  took 
her  in  his  arms,  kissed  her,  and  said  he  would  stop, 
that  no  one  could  cook  a  sole  as  she  could,  that  it  gave 
him  an  appetite  to  think  of  it. 

"And  may  I  stop  with  father  w^hile  you  are  cooking 
his  dinner?"  said  Jackie. 

"Yes,  you  can  do  that;  but  3'ou  must  go  to  bed 
when  I  bring  it  upstairs.  I  want  to  talk  with  father 
then." 

Jackie  seemed  quite  satisfied  with  this  arrangement, 


324  ESTHER    WATERS 

but  when  Esther  came  upstairs  with  the  sole,  and  was 
about  to  hand  him  over  to  Jane,  he  begged  lustily  to 
be  allowed  to  remain  until  father  had  finished  his  fish. 
"It  won't  matter  to  you,"  he  said;  "you've  to  go 
downstairs  to  fry  the  steak. ' ' 

But  when  she  came  up  with  the  steak  he  was 
unwilling  as  ever  to  leave.  She  said  he  must  go  to 
bed,  and  he  knew  from  her  tone  that  argument  was 
useless.  As  a  last  consolation,  she  promised  him  that 
she  would  come  upstairs  and  kiss  him  before  he  went 
to  sleep. 

"You  will  come,  won't  you,  mummie?  I  shan't  go 
to  sleep  till  you  do."  Esther  and  William  both 
laughed,  and  Esther  was  pleased,  for  she  was  still  a 
little  jealous  of  his  love  for  his  father. 

"Come  along,"  Jackie  cried  to  Jane,  and  he  ran 
upstairs,  chattering  to  her  about  the  toys  he  had  seen 
in  Oxford  Street.  Charles  was  lighting  the  gas,  and 
Esther  had  to  go  into  the  bar  to  serve  some  custom- 
ers. When  she  returned,  William  was  smoking  his 
pipe.  Her  dinner  had  had  its  effect,  he  had  forgotten 
his  losses,  and  was  willing  to  tell  her  the  news.  He 
had  a  bit  of  news  for  her.  He  had  seen  Ginger; 
Ginger  had  come  up  as  cordial  as  you  like,  and  had 
asked  him  what  price  he  was  laying. 

"Did  he  bet  with  you?" 

"Yes,  I  laid  him  ten  pounds  to  five.** 

Once  more  William  began  to  lament  his  luck. 
"You'll  have  better  luck  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "The 
favourites  can't  go  on  winning.  Tell  me  about 
Ginger.'* 

"There  isn't  much  to  tell.  We'd  a  little  chat.  He 
knew  all  about  the  little  arrangement,  the  five  hun- 


ESTHER    WATERS  325 

dred,    you    know,    and     laughed     heartily.       Peggy's 
married.     I've  forgotten  the  chap's  name." 

"The  one  that  you  kicked  downstairs?" 

"No,  not  him;  I  can't  think  of  it.  No  matter. 
Ginger  remembered  you ;  he  wished  us  luck,  took  the 
address,  and  said  he'd  come  in  to-night  to  see  you  if 
he  possibly  could.  I  don't  think  he's  been  doing  too 
well  lately,.. if  he  had  he'd  been  more  stand-offish.  I 
saw  'Jimmy  White— you  remember  Jim,  the  little  fel- 
low we  used  to  call'  the  Demon,  'e  that  won  the  Stew- 
ards' Cup  on  Silver  Braid?  .  .  .  Didn't  you  and 
'e  'ave  a  tussle  together  at  the  end  of  dinner — the  first 
day  you  come  down  from  town?" 

"The  second  day  it  was." 

"You're  right,  it  was  the  second  day.  The  first  day 
I  met  you  in  the  avenue  I  was  leaning  over  the  rail- 
ings having  a  smoke,  and  you  come  along  with  a  heavy 
bundle  and  asked  me  the  way.  I  wasn't  in  service  at 
that  time.  Good  Lord,  how  time  does  slip  by!  It 
seems  like  yesterday.  .  .  .  And  after  all  those 
years  to  meet  you  as  you  was  going  to  the  public  for  a 
jug  of  beer,  and  'ere  we  are  man  and  wife  sitting  side 
by  side  in  our  own  'ouse. ' ' 

Esther  had  been  in  the  "King's  Head"  now  nearly  a 
year.  The  first  Mrs.  Latch  had  got  her  divorce  with- 
out much  difficulty;  and  Esther  had  begun  to  realise 
that  she  had  got  a  good  husband  long  before  they 
slipped  round  to  the  nearest  registry  office  and  came 
back  man  and  wife. 

Charles  opened  the  door.  "Mr.  Randal  is  in  the 
bar,  sir,  and  would  like  to  have  a  word  with  you." 

'All  right,"  said  William.     "Tell  him  I'm  coming 
into  the  bar  presently."      Charles  withdrew.      "I'm 


326  ESTHER    WATERS 

afraid,"  said  William,  lov/ering  his  voice,  "that  the  old 
chap  is  in  a  bad  way.  He's  been  out  of  a  place  a  long 
while,  and  will  find  it  'ard  to  get  back  again.  Once 
yer  begin  to  age  a  bit,  they  won't  look  at  you.  We're 
both  well  out  of  business. ' ' 

Mr.  Randal  sat  in  his  favourite  corner  by  the  wall, 
smoking  his  clay.  He  wore  a  large  frock-coat,  vague 
in  shape,  pathetically  respectable.  The  round  hat  was 
greasy  round  the  edges,  brown  and  dusty  on  top.  The 
shirt  was  clean  but  unstarched,  and  the  thin  throat  was 
tied  with  an  old  black  silk  cravat.  He  looked  himself, 
the  old  servant  out  of  situation — the  old  servant  who 
would  never  be  in  situation  again. 

*'Been  'aving  an  'ell  of  a  time  at  Newmarket,"  said 
William;  "favourites  romping  in  one  after  the  other." 

"I  saw  that  the  favourites  had  been  winning.  But  I 
know  of  something,  a  rank  outsider,  for  the  Leger.  I 
got  the  letter  this  morning.  I  thought  I'd  come  round 
and  tell  yer." 

"Much  obliged,  old  mate,  but  it  don't  do  for  me  to 
listen  to  such  tales;  we  bookmakers  must  pay  no 
attention  to  information,  no  matter  how  correct  it  may 
be.  .  .  .  Much  obliged  all  the  same.  What  are 
you  drinking?" 

"I've  not  finished  my  glass  yet."  He  tossed  off  the 
last  mouthful. 

"The  same?"  said  William. 

"Yes,  thank  you." 

William  drew  two  glasses  of  porter.  "Here*s  luck. " 
The  men  nodded,  drank,  and  then  William  turned  to 
speak  to  a  group  at  the  other  end  of  the  bar.  "One 
moment,"  John  said,  touching  William  on  the  shoul- 
der.     "It  is  the  best  tip  I  ever  had  in  my  life.     I 


ESTHER     WATERS  327 

'aven't  forgotten  what  I  owe  you,  and  if  this  comes  off 
I'll  be  able  to  pay  you  all  back.     Lay  the  odds,  twenty 

sovereigns    to    one    against "      Old    John    looked 

round  to  see  that  no  one  was  within  ear-shot,  then  he 
leant  forward  and  whispered  the  horse's  name  in  Wil- 
liam's ear.  William  laughed.  "If  you're  so  sure 
about  it  as  all  that,"  he  said,  "I'd  sooner  lend  you  the 
quid  to  back  the  horse  elsewhere." 

"Will  you  lend  me  a  quid?" 

"Lend  you  a  quid  and  five  first  favourites  romping 
in  one  after  another! — you  must  take  me  for  Baron 
Rothschild.  You  think  because  I've  a  public-house 
I'm  coining  money;  well,  I  ain't.  It's  cruel  the  busi- 
ness we  do  here.  You  wouldn't  believe  it,  and  you 
know  that  better  liquor  can't  be  got  in  the  neighbour- 
hood."  Old  John  listened  with  the  indifference  of  a 
man  whose  life  is  absorbed  in  one  passion  and  who  can 
interest  himself  with  nothing  else.  Esther  asked  him 
after  Mrs.  Randal  and  his  children,  but  conversation 
on  the  subject  was  always  disagreeable  to  him,  and  he 
passed  it  over  with  few  words.  As  soon  as  Esther 
moved  away  he  leant  forward  and  whispered,  "Lay 
me  twelve  pounds  to  ten  shillings.  I'll  be  sure  to  pay 
you;  there's  a  new  restaurant  going  to  open  in  Oxford 
Street  and  I'm  going  to  apply  for  the  place  of  head- 
waiter.  ' ' 

"Yes,  but  will  you  get  it?"  William  answered 
brutally.  He  did  not  mean  to  be  unkind,  but  his 
nature  was  as  hard  and  as  plain  as  a  kitchen-table. 
The  chin  dropped  into  the  unstarched  collar  and  the 
old-fashioned  necktie,  and  old  John  continued  smoking 
unnoticed  by  any  one.  Esther  looked  at  him.  She 
saw  he  was  down  on  his  luck,  and  she  remembered  the 


328  ESTHER     WATERS 

tall,  melancholy,  pale-faced  woman  whom  she  had  met 
weeping  by  the  sea-shore  the  day  that  Silver  Braid  had 
won  the  cup.  She  wondered  what  had  happened  to  her, 
in  what  corner  did  she  live,  and  where  was  the  son 
that  John  Randal  had  not  allowed  to  enter  the 
Barfield  establishment  as  page-boy,  thinking  he  would 
be  able  to  make  something  better  of  him  than  a 
servant. 

The  regular  customers  had  begun  to  come  in. 
Esther  greeted  them  with  nods  and  smiles  of  recogni- 
tion. She  drew  the  beer  two  glasses  at  once  in  her 
hand,  and  picked  up  little  zinc  measures,  two  and  four 
of  w^hisky,  and  filled  them  from  a  small  tap.  She 
usually  knew  the  taste  of  her  customers.  When  she 
made  a  mistake  she  muttered  "stupid,"  and  Mr. 
Ketley  was  much  amused  at  her  forgetting  that  he 
always' drank  out  of  the  bottle;  he  was  one  of  the  few 
who  came  to  the  "King's  Head"  who  could  afford  six- 
penny whisky.  "I  ought  to  haA^e  known  by  this  time, " 
she  said.  "Well,  mistakes  will  occur  in  the  best  regu- 
lated families,"  the  little  butterman  replied.  He  was 
meagre  and  meek,  with  a  sallow  complexion  and  blond 
beard.  His  pale  eyes  were  anxious,  and  his  thin, 
bony  hands  restless.  His  general  manner  was 
oppressed,  and  he  frequently  raised  his  hat  to  wipe  his 
forehead,  which  was  high  and  bald.  At  his  elbow 
stood  Journeyman,  Ketley's  ver^^  opposite.  A  tall, 
harsh,  angular  man,  long  features,  a  dingy  com- 
plexion, and  the  air  of  a  dismissed  soldier.  He  held  a 
glass  of  whisky-and-water  in  a  hairj^  hand,  and  bit  at 
the  corner  of  a  brown  moustache.  He  wore  a  thread- 
bare black  frock-coat,  and  carried  a  newspaper  under 
his  arm.      Ketley  and  Journeyman  held  widely  differ- 


ESTHER     WATERS  329 

ent  views  regarding  the  best  means  of  backing  horses. 
Ketley  was  preoccupied  with  dreams  and  omens; 
Journeyman,  a  clerk  in  the  parish  registry  office, 
studied  public  form;  he  was  guided  by  it  in  all  his 
speculations,  and  paid  little  heed  to  the  various 
rumours  always  afloat  regarding  private  trials.  Pub- 
lic form  he  admitted  did  not  always  come  out  right, 
but  if  a  man  had  a  headpiece  and  could  remember  all 
the  running,  public  form  was  good  enough  to  follow. 
Racing  with  Journeyman  was  a  question  of  calcula- 
tion, and  great  therefore  was  his  contempt  for  the 
weak  and  smiling  Ketley,  w^hom  he  went  for  on  all 
occasions.  But  Ketley  was  pluckier  than  his  appear- 
ance indicated,  and  the  duels  between  the  two  were  a 
constant  source  of  amusement  in  the  bar  of  the 
"King's  Head." 

"Well,  Herbert,  the  omen  wasn't  altogether  up  to 
the  mark  this  time,"  said  Journeyman,  with  a  mali- 
cious twinkle  in  his  small  browm  eyes. 

"No,  it  was  one  of  them  unfortunate  accidents." 

"One  of  them  unfortunate  accidents,"  repeated 
Journeyman,  derisively;  "what's  accidents  to  do  with 
them  that  'as  to  do  with  the  reading  of  omens?  I 
thought  they  rose  above  such  trifles  as  weights,  dis- 
tances, bad  riding.  ...  A  stone  or  two  should 
make  no  difference  if  the  omen  is  right. ' ' 

Ketley  was  no  way  put  out  by  the  slight  titter  that 
Journeyman's  retort  had  produced  in  the  group  about 
the  bar.  He  drank  his  whisky-and-water  deliberately, 
like  one,  to  use  a  racing  expression,  who  had  been  over 
the  course  before. 

"I've  'card  that  argument.  I  know  all  about  it,  but 
it  don't  alter  me.     Too  many  strange  things  occur  for 


33^  ESTHER     WATERS 

me  to  think  that  everything  can  be  calculated  with  a 
bit  of  lead-pencil  in  a  greasy  pocket-book." 

"What  has  the  grease  of  my  pocket-book  to  do  with 
it?"  replied  Journeyman,  looking  round.  The  com- 
pany smiled  and  nodded.  "You  says  that  signs  and 
omens  is  above  any  calculation  of  weights.  Never 
mind  the  pocket-book,  greasy  or  not  greasy;  you  says 
that  these  omens  is  more  to  be  depended  on  than  the 
best  stable  information." 

"I  thought  that  you  placed  no  reliance  on  stable 
information,  and  that  you  was  guided  by  the  weights 
that  you  calculated  in  that  'ere  pocket-book." 

"What's  my  pocket-book  to  do  with  it?  You  want 
to  see  my  pocket-book ;  well,  here  it  is,  and  I'll  bet 
two  glasses  of  beer  that  it  ain't  greasier  than  any 
other  pocket-book  in  this  bar." 

"I  don't  see  meself  what  pocket-books,  greasy  or  not 
greasy,  has  to  do  with  it,"  said  William.  "Walter  put 
a  fair  question  to  Herbert.  The  omen  didn't  come  out 
right,  and  Walter  wanted  to  know  why  it  didn't  come 
out  right." 

"That  was  it,"  said  Journeyman. 

All  eyes  were  now  fixed  on  Ketley.  "You  want  to 
know  why  the  omen  wasn't  right?  I'll  tell  you — 
because  it  was  no  omen  at  all,  that's  why.  The  omens 
always  comes  right;  it  is  we  who  aren't  always  in  the 
particular  state  of  mind  that  allows  us  to  read  the 
omens  right."  Journeyman  shrugged  his  shoulders 
contemptuously.  Ketley  looked  at  him  with  the  same 
expression  of  placid  amusement.  "You'd  like  me  to 
explain;  well,  I  will.  Tlie  omen  is  always  right,  but 
we  aren't  always  in  the  state  of  mind  for  the  reading 
of  the  omen..    You  think  that  ridiculous,  Walter;  but 


ESTHER     WATERS  33 1 

why  should  omens  differ  from  other  things?  Some 
days  we  can  get  through  our  accounts  in  'alf  the  time 
we  can  at  other  times,  the  mind  being  clearer.  I  asks 
all  present  if  that  is  not  so. " 

Ketley  had  got  hold  of  his  audience,  and  Journey- 
man's remark  about  closing  time  only  provoked  a 
momentar}^  titter.  Ketley  looked  long  and  steadily  at 
Journeyman  and  then  said,  "Perhaps  closing  time 
won't  do  no  more  for  your  calculation  of  weights  than 
for  my  omens.  ...  I  know  them  jokes,  we've 
'eard  them  afore;  but  I'm  not  making  jokes;  I'm  talk- 
ing serious."  The  company  nodded  approval.  "I 
was  saying  there  was  times  when  the  mind  is  fresh 
like  the  morning.  That's  the  time  for  them  what  'as 
got  the  gift  of  reading  the  omens.  It  is  a  sudden  light 
that  comes  into  the  mind,  and  it  points  straight  like  a 
ray  of  sunlight,  if  there  be  nothing  to  stop  it.  .  .  . 
Now  do  you  understand?"  No  one  had  understood, 
but  all  felt  that  they  were  on  the  point  of  understand- 
ing. "The  whole  thing  is  in  there  being  nothing  to 
interrupt  the  light." 

"But  you  says  yourself  that  yer  can't  always  read 
them,"  said  Journeyman;  "an  accident  will  send  you 
off  on  the  wrong  tack,  so  it  all  comes  to  the  same 
thing,  omens  or  no  omens." 

"A  man  will  trip  over  a  piece  of  wire  laid  across  the 
street,   but  that    don't    prove    he    can't  walk,   do  '^^i/Y 
Walter?" 

Walter  was  unable  to  say  that  it  did  not,  and  so 
Ketley  scored  another  point  over  his  opponent.  "I 
made  a  mistake,  I  know  I  did,  and  if  it  will  help  yoM 
to  understand  I'll  tell  you  how  it  was  made.  Three 
weeks  ago  I  was  in  this  'ere  bar  'aving  what  I  usually 


332  ESTHER    WATERS 

takes.  It  was  a  bit  early;  none  of  you  fellows  had 
come  in.  I  don't  think  it  was  much  after  eight.  The 
governor  was  away  in  the  north  racin' — hadn't  been 
'ome  for  three  or  four  days;  the  missus  was  beginning 
to  look  a  bit  lonely. ' '  Ketley  smiled  and  glanced  at 
Esther,  who  had  told  Charles  to  serve  some  customers, 
and  was  listening  as  intently  as  the  rest.  "I'd  'ad  a 
nice  bit  of  supper,  and  was  just  feeling  that  fresh  and 
clear  'eaded  as  I  was  explaining  to  you  just  now  is 
required  for  the  reading,  thinking  of  nothing  in  per- 
ticler,  when  suddenly  the  light  came.  I  remembered  a 
conversation  I  'ad  with  a  chap  about  American  corn. 
He  wouldn't  'ear  of  the  Government  taxing  corn  to 
'elp  the  British  farmer.  Well,  that  conversation  came 
I  back  to  me  as  clear  as  if  the  dawn  had  begun  to  break. 
I  could  positively  see  the  bloody  corn ;  I  could  pretty 
well  'ave  counted  it.  I  felt  there  was  an  omen  about 
somewhere,  and  all  of  a  tremble  I  took  up  the  paper; 
it  was  lying  on  the  bar  just  where  your  hand  is, 
Walter.  But  at  that  moment,  just  as  I  was  about  to 
cast  my  eye  down  the  list  of  'orses,  a  cab  comes  down 
the  street  as  'ard  as  it  could  tear.  There  was  but  two 
or  three  of  us  in  the  bar,  and  we  rushed  out — the 
shafts  was  broke,  'orse  galloping  and  kicking,  and  the 
cabby  'olding  on  as  'ard  as  he  could.  But  it  was  no 
good,  it  was  bound  to  go,  and  over  it  went  against  the 
kerb.  The  cabby,  poor  chap,  was  pretty  well  shook  to 
pieces;  his  leg  was  broke,  and  we'd  to  'elp  to  take  him 
to  the  hosspital.  Now  I  asks  if  it  was  no  more  than 
might  be  expected  that  I  should  have  gone  wrong 
about  the  omen.  Next  day,  as  luck  would  have  it,  I 
rolled  up  'alf  a  pound  of  butter  in  a  piece  of  paper  on 
which  'Cross  Roads'  was  written." 


ESTHER     WATERS  ZiZ 

"But  if  there  had  been  no  accident  and  you  'ad 
looked  down  the  list  of  'orses,  'ow  do  yer  know  that 
yer  would  'ave  spotted  the  winner?" 

*'What,  not  Wheatear,  and  with  all  that  American 
corn  in  my  'ead?     Is  it  likely  I'd  've  missed  it?" 

No  one  answered,  and  Ketley  drank  his  whisky  in 
the  midst  of  a  most  thoughtful  silence.  At  last  one  of 
the  group  said,  and  he  seemed  to  express  the  general 
mind  of  the  company — 

"I  don't  know  if  omens  be  worth  a-following  of,  but 
I'm  blowed  if  'orses  be  worth  backing  if  the  omens  is 
again  them." 

His  neighbour  answered,  "And  they  do  come  won- 
derful true  occasional.  They  *as  'appened  to  me,  and 
I  daresay  to  all  'ere  present."  The  company  nodded. 
"You've  noticed  how  them  that  knows  nothing  at  all 
about  'orses — the  less  they  knows  the  better  their 
luck — will  look  down  the  lot  and  spot  the  winner 
from  pure  fancy — the  name  that  catches  their  eyes  as 
likely." 

"There's  something  in  it,"  said  a^rpulent  butcher 
with  huge,  pursy,  prominent  eyes  and  a  portentous 
vStomach.  "I  ahvays^tfeTH  with  going  to  church,  and 
I  hold  still  more  with  going  to  church  since  I  backed 
Vanity  for  the  Chester  Cup.  I  was  a-falling  asleep 
-over  the  sermon,  when  suddenly  I  wakes  up  hearing, 
'Vanity  of  vanities,  and  all  is  vanity.'  " 

Several  similar  stories  were  told,  and  then  various 
systems  for  backing  horses  were  discussed.  "You 
don't  believe  that  no  'orses  is  pulled?"  said  Mr.  Stack, 
the  porter  at  Sutherland  Mansions,  Oxford  Street,  a 
large,  bluff  man,  wearing  a  dark  blue  square-cut  frock 
coat  with  brass  buttons.     A  curious-looking  man,  with 


334  ESTHER     WATERS 

red-stained  skin,  dark  beady  eyes,  a  scanty  growth  of 
beard,  and  a  loud,  assuming  voice.  "You  don't  believe 
that  no  'orses  is  pulled?"  he  reiterated. 

"I  didn't  say  that  no  'orse  was  never  pulled,"  said 
Journeyman.  He  stood  with  his  back  leaning  against 
the  partition,  his  long  legs  stretched  out.  "If  one  was 
really  in  the  know,  then  I  don't  say  nothing  about  it; 
but  who  of  us  is  ever  really  in  the  know?" 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that,"  said  Mr.  Stack. 
"There's  a  young  man  in  my  mansions  that  'as  a  serv- 
ant; this  servant's  cousin,  a  girl  in  the  country,  keeps 
company  with  one  of  the  lads  in  the  White  House 
stable.  If  that  ain't  good  enough,  I  don't  know  what 
is ;  good  enough  for  my  half-crown  and  another  pint 
of  beer  too,  Mrs.  Latch,  as  you'll  be  that  kind." 

Esther  drew  the  beer,  and  Old  John,  who  had  said 
nothing  till  now,  suddenly  joined  in  the  conversation. 
He  too  had  heard  of  something;  he  didn't  know  if  it 
was  the  same  as  Stack  had  heard  of;  he  didn't  expect 
it  was.  It  couldn't  very  well  be,  'cause  no  one  knew  of 
this  particular  horse,  not  a  soul — not  'alf-a-dozen  people 
in  the  world.  No,  he  would  tell  no  one  until  his  money 
and  the  stable  money  was  all  right.  And  he  didn't 
care  for  no  half-crowns  or  dollars  this  time,  if  he 
couldn't  get  a  sovereign  or  two  on  the  horse  he'd  let  it 
alone.  This  time  he'd  be  a  man  or  a  mouse.  Every 
one  was  listening  intently,  but  old  John  suddenly 
assumed  an  air  of  mystery  and  refused  to  say  another 
word.  The  conversation  worked  back  whither  it  had 
started,  and  again  the  best  method  of  backing  horses 
was  passionately  discussed.  Interrupting  someone 
whose  theories  seemed  intolerably  ludicrous,  Journey- 
man said — 


ESTHER    WATERS  335 

**Let's  'ear  what's  the  governor's  opinion;  he  ought 
to  know  what  kind  of  backer  gets  the  most  out  of  him. ' ' 

Journeyman's  proposal  to  submit  the  question  to  the 
governor  met  with  very  general  approval.  Even  the 
vagrant  who  had  taken  his  tankard  of  porter  to  the 
bench  where  he  could  drink  and  eat  what  fragments 
of  food  he  had  collected,  came  forw^ard,  interested  to 
know^  what  kind  of  backer  got  most  out  of  the  book- 
maker. 

'*Well,"  said  William,  "I  haven't  been  making  a 
book  as  long  as  some  of  them,  but  since  you  ask  me 
what  I  think  I  tell  you  straight.  I  don't  care  a  damn 
whether  they  backs  according  to  their  judgment,  or 
their  dreams,  or  their  fancy.  The  cove  that  follows 
favourites,  or  the  cove  that  backs  a  jockey's  mount, 
the  cove  that  makes  an  occasional  bet  when  he  hears 
of  a  good  thing,  the  cove  that  bets  regular,  'cording  to 
a  system — the  cove,  yer  know,  what  doubles  every 
time — or  the  cove  that  bets  as  the  mood  takes  him — 
them  and  all  the  other  coves,  too  numerous  to  be  men- 
tioned, I'm  glad  to  do  business  with.  I  cries  out  to 
one  as  'eartily  as  to  another:  'The  old  firm,  the  old 
firm,  don't  forget  the  old  firm.  .  .  .  What  can  I 
do  for  you  to-day,  sir?'  There's  but  one  sort  of  cove  I 
can't  abide." 

"And  he  is "  said  Journeyman. 

*'He  is  Mr,_  George  Buff." 

"Who's  he?  who's  he?"  asked  several;  and  the 
vagrant  caused  some  amusement  by  the  question,  "Do 
'e  bet  on  the  course?" 

"Yes,  he  do,"  said  William,  "an'  nowhere  else. 
He's  at  every  meeting  as  reg'lar  as  if  he  was  a  bookie 
himself.     I  'ates  to  see  his  face.     .     .     .     I'd  be  a  rich 


S3^_  ESTHER    WATERS 

man  if  I'd  all  the  money  that  man  'as  'ad  out  of  me  in 
the  last  three  years. ' ' 

"What  should  you  say  was  his  system?"  asked  Mr. 
Stack. 

"I  don't  know  no  more  than  yerselves." 

This  admission  seemed  a  little  chilling;  for  every- 
one had  thought  himself  many  steps  nearer  El  Dorado. 

"But  did  you  ever  notice,"  said  Mr.  Ketley,  "that 
there  was  certain  days  on  which  he  bet?" 

"No,  I  never  noticed  that." 

"Are  they  outsiders  that  he  backs?"  asked  Stack. 

"No,  only  favourites.  But  what  I  can't  make  out  is 
that  there  are  times  when  he  won't  touch  them;  and 
when  he  don't,  nine  times  out  of  ten  they're  beaten." 

"Are  the  'orses  he  backs  what  you'd  call  well  in?" 
said  Journeyman. 

"Not  always." 

"Then  it  must  be  on  information  from  the  stable 
authorities?"  said  Stack. 

"I  dun  know,"  said  William;  "have  it  that  way  if 
you  like,  but  I'm  glad  there  ain't  many  about  like 
him.  I  wish  he'd  take  his  custom  elsewhere.  He 
gives  me  the  solid  hump,  he  do." 

"What  sort  of  man  should  you  say  he  was?  *as  he 
been  a  servant,  should  you  say?"  asked  old  John. 

"I  can't  tell  you  what  he  is.  Always  new  suit  of 
clothes  and  a  hie-glass.  Whenever  I  see  that  'ere  hie- 
glass  and  that  brown  beard  my  heart  goes  down  in  my 
boots.  When  he  don't  bet  he  takes  no  notice,  walks 
past  with  a  vague  look  on  his  face,  as  if  he  didn't  see 
the  people,  and  he  don't  care  that  for  the  'orses. 
Knowing  he  don't  mean  no  business,  I  cries  to  him, 
'The  best  price,  Mr.  Buff;  two  to  one  on  the  field,  ten 


ESTHER     WATERS  337 

to  one  bar  two  or  three.'  He  just  catches  his  hie-glass 
tighter  in  eye  and  looks  at  me,  smiles,  shakes  his 
head,  and  goes  on.  He  is  a  warm  'un;  he  is  just 
about  as  'ot  as  they  make  'em." 

"What  I  can't  make  out,"  said  Journeyman,  "is 
why  he  bets  on  the  course.  You  say  he  don't  know 
nothing  about  horses.  Why  don't  he  remain  at  'ome 
and  save  the  exes?" 

"I've  thought  of  all  that,"  said  William,  "and  can't 
make  no  more  out  of  it  than  you  can  yerselves.  All 
we  know  is  that,  divided  up  between  five  or  six  of  us, 
Buff  costs  not  far  short  of  six  'undred  a  year." 

At  that  moment  a  small  blond  man  came  into  the 
bar.  Esther  knew  him  at  once.  It  was  Ginger.  He 
had  hardly  changed  at  all— a  little  sallower,  a  little 
dryer,  a  trifle  less  like  a  gentleman. 

"Won't  you  step  round,  sir,  to  the  private  bar?"  said 
William.     "You'll  be  more  comfortable." 

"Hardly  worth  while.  I  w^as  at  the  theatre,  and 
I  thought  I'd  come  in  and  have  a  look  round.  .  .  . 
I  see  that  you  haven't  forgotten  the  old  horses,"  he 
said,  catching  sight  of  the  prints  of  Silver  Braid  and 
Summer's  Dean  which  William  had  hung  on  the  wall. 
"That  was  a  great  day,  wasn't  it?  Fifty  to  one 
chance,  started  at  thirty ;  and  you  remember  the  Gaffer 
tried  him  to  win  with  twenty  pound  more  than  he  had 
to  carry.  .  .  .  Hullo,  John !  very  glad  to  see  you 
again;  growing  strong  and  well,  I  hope?" 

The  old  servant  looked  so  shabby  that  Esther  was 
not  surprised  that  Ginger  did  not  shake  hands  with 
him.  She  wondered  if  he  would  remember  her,  and 
as  the  thought  passed  through  her  mind  he  extended 
his  hand  across  the  bar. 


338  ESTHER    WATERS 

"I  'ope  I  may  have  the  honour  of  drinking  a  glass  of 
wine  with  you,  sir,"  said  William.  Ginger  raised  no 
objection,  and  William  told  Esther  to  go  down-stairs 
and  fetch  up  a  bottle  of  champagne. 
'  Ketley,  Journeyman,  Stack,  and  the  others  listened 
eagerly.  To  meet  the  celebrated  gentleman-rider  was 
a  great  event  in  their  lives.  But  the  conversation  was 
confined  to  the  Barfield  horses ;  it  was  carried  on  by 
the  merest  allusion,  and  Journeyman  wearied  of  it. 
He  said  he  must  be  getting  home;  the  others  nodded, 
finished  their  glasses,  and  bade  William  good-night  as 
they  left.  A  couple  of  flower-girls  with  loose  hair, 
shawls,  and  trays  of  flowers,  suggestive  of  street- 
faring,  came  in  and  ordered  four  ale.  They  spoke  to 
the  vagrant,  who  collected  his  match-boxes  in  prepara- 
tion for  a  last  search  for  charity.  William  cut  the 
wires  of  the  champagne,  and  at  that  moment  Charles, 
who  had  gone  through  with  the  ladder  to  turn  out  the 
street  lamp,  returned  with  a  light  overcoat  on  his  arm 
which  he  said  a  cove  outside  wanted  to  sell  him  for 
two-and-six.  * ' 

*'Do  you  know  him?"  said  William. 

"Yes,  I  knowed  him.  I  had  to  put  him  out  the 
other  night — Bill  Evans,  the  cove  that  wears  the 
blue  Melton." 

The  swing  doors  were  opened,  and  a  man  between 
thirty  and  forty  came  in.  He  was  about  the  medium 
height;  a  dark  olive  skin,  black  curly  hair,  pictur- 
esque and  disreputable,  like  a  bird  of  prey  in  his  blue 
Melton  jacket  and  billycock  hat. 

"You'd  better  'ave  the  coat,"  he  said;  "you  won't 
better  it;"  and  coming  into  the  bar  he  plunked  down 
a  penny  as  if  it  were  a  sovereign.     "Glass  of  porter; 


ESTHER     WATERS  339 

nice  warm  weather,  good  for  the  'arvest.     Just  come 
up  from  the  country — a  bit  dusty,  ain't  I?" 

"Ain't  you  the  chap,"  said  William,  "what  laid 
Mr.  Ketley  six  'alf-crowns  to  one  against  Cross 
Roads?" 

Charles  nodded,  and  William  continued — 

**I  like  your  cheek  coming  into  my  bar." 

"No  harm  done,  gov'nor;  no  one  was  about; 
wouldn't  'ave  done  it  if  they  had." 

"That'll  do,"  said  William.  "  .  .  .  No,  he  don't 
want  the  coat.  We  likes  to  know  where  our  things 
comes  from." 

Bill  Evans  finished  his  glass.  ' '  Good-night,  guv'nor ; 
no  ill-feeling. " 

The  flower-girls  laughed ;  one  offered  him  a  flower. 
"Take  it  for  love,"  she  said.  He  was  kind  enough  to 
do  so,  and  the  three  went  out  together. 

"I  don't  like  the  looks  of  that  chap,"  said  William, 
and  he  let  go  the  champagne  cork.  "  Yer  health,  sir.  " 
They  raised  their  glasses,  and  the  conversation  turned 
on  next  week's  racing. 

"I  dun  know  about  next  week's  events,"  said  old 
John,  "but  I've  heard  of  something  for  the  Leger — an 
outsider  will  win." 

"Have  you  backed  it?" 

"I  would  if  I  had  the  money,  but  things  have  been 
going  very  unlucky  with  me  lately.  But  I'd  advise 
you,  sir,  to  have  a  trifle  on.  It's  the  best  tip  I  'ave 
had  in  my  life. ' ' 

"Really!"  said  Ginger,  beginning  to  feel  interested, 
"so  I  will,  and  so  shall  you.  I'm  damned  if  you 
shan't  have  your  bit  on.  Come,  what  is  it?  William 
will  lay  the  odds.     What  is  it?" 


340  ESTHER     WATERS 

*' Briar  Rose,  the  White  House  stable,  sir.'* 

*'Why,  I  thought  that " 

**No  such  thing,  sir;  Briar  Rose's  the  one." 

Ginger  took  up  the  paper.  "Twenty-five  to  one 
Briar  Rose  taken." 

"You  see,  sir,  it  was  taken." 

"Will  you  lay  the  price,  William — twenty-five  half- 
sovereigns  to  one?" 

"Yes,  I'll  lay  it." 

Ginger  took  a  half-sovereign  from  his  pocket  and 
handed  it  to  the  bookmaker. 

"I  never  take  money  over  this  bar.  You're  good 
for  a  thin  'un,  sir,"  William  said,  with  a  smile,  as  he 
handed  back  the  money. 

"But  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  see  you  again," 
said  Ginger.  "It  will  be  very  inconvenient.  There's 
no  one  in  the  bar. ' ' 

"None  but  the  match-seller  and  them  two  flower- 
girls.     I  suppose  they  don't  matter?" 

Happiness  flickered  up  through  the  old  greyness  of 
the  face.  Henceforth  something  to  live  for.  Each 
morning  bringing  news  of  the  horse,  and  the  hours  of 
the  afternoon  passing  pleasantly,  full  of  thoughts  of 
the  evening  paper  and  the  gossip  of  the  bar.  A  bet  on 
a  race  brings  hope  into  lives  which  otherwise  would 
be  hopeless. 


XXXI. 

Never  had  a  Derby  excited  greater  interest.  Four 
hot  favourites,  between  which  the  public  seemed 
unable  to  choose.  Two  to  one  taken  and  offered 
against  Fly-leaf,  winner  of  the  Two  Thousand ;  four  to 
one  taken  and  offered  against  Signet-ring,  who,  half- 
trained,  had  run  Fly-leaf  to  a  head.  Four  to  one 
against  Necklace,  the  winner  of  the  Middle  Park  Plate 
and  the  One  Thousand.  Seven  to  one  against  Dew- 
berry, the  brilliant  winner  of  the  Newmarket  stakes. 
The  chances  of  these  horses  were  argued  every  night 
at  the  "King's  Head."  Ketley's  w4fe  used  to  w^ear  a 
string  of  yellow  beads  when  she  was  a  girl,  but  she 
wasn't  certain  what  had  become  of  them.  Ketley  did 
not  wear  a  signet-ring,  and  had  never  known  anyone 
who  did.  Dewberries  grew  on  the  river  banks,  but 
they  were  not  ripe  yet.  Fly-leaf,  he  could  not  make 
much  of  that — not  being  much  of  a  reader.  So  what 
with  one  thing  and  another  Ketley  didn't  believe  much 
in  this  'ere  Derby.  Journeyman  caustically  remarked 
that,  omens  or  no  omens,  one  horse  was  bound  to  win. 
Why  didn't  Herbert  look  for  an  omen  among  the  out- 
siders? Old  John's  experiences  led  him  to  think  that 
the  race  lay  between  Fly-leaf  and  Signet-ring.  He 
had  a  great  faith  in  blood,  and  Signet-ring  came  of  a 
more  staying  stock  than  did  Fly-leaf.  "When  they 
begin  to  climb  out  of  the  dip  Fly-leaf  w^ill  have  had 
about  enough  of  it."  Stack  nodded  approval.  He 
had  five  bob  on  Dewberry.      He  didn't  know  much 

341 


34^  ESTHER    WATERS 

about  his  staying  powers,  but  all  the  stable  is  on  him ; 
"and  when  I  know  the  stable-money  is  right  I  says, 
'That's  good  enough  forme!'  " 

Ginger,  who  came  in  occasionally,  was  very  sweet  on 
Necklace,  whom  he  declared  to  be  the  finest  mare  of 
the  century.  He  was  listened  to  with  awed  attention, 
and  there  was  a  death-like  silence  in  the  bar  when  he 
described  how  she  had  won  the  One  Thousand.  He 
wouldn't  have  ridden  her  quite  that  way  himself;  but 
then  what  was  a  steeplechase  rider's  opinion  worth 
regarding  a  flat  race?  The  company  demurred,  and 
old  John  alluded  to  Ginger's  magnificent  riding  when 
he  won  the  Liverpool  on  Foxcover,  steadying  the  horse 
about  sixty  yards  from  home,  and  bringing  him  up  with 
a  rush  in  the  last  dozen  strides,  nailing  Jim  Sutton, 
who  had  persevered  all  the  way,  on  the  very  post  by  a 
head.  Bill  Evans,  who  happened  to  look  in  that  even- 
ing, said  that  he  would  not  be  surprised  to  see  all  the 
four  favourites  bowled  out  by  an  outsider.  He  had 
heard  something  that  was  good  enough  for  him.  He 
didn't  suppose  the  guv'nor  would  take  him  on  the 
nod,  but  he  had  a  nice  watch  which  ought  to  be  good 
for  three  ten. 

"Turn  it  up,  old  mate,"  said  William. 

"All  right,  guv'nor,  I  never  presses  my  goods  on 
them  that  don't  want  'em.  If  there's  any  other  gen- 
tleman who  would  like  to  look  at  this  'ere  timepiece, 
or  a  pair  of  sleeve  links,  they're  in  for  fifteen  shillings. 
Here's  the  ticket.  I'm  a  bit  short  of  money,  and  have 
a  fancy  for  a  certain  outsider.  I'd  like  to  have  my  bit 
on,  and  I'll  dispose  of  the  ticket  for — what  do  you  say 
to  a  thin  'un,  Mr.  Ketley?" 

"Did     you     'ear    me     speak    just    now?"    William 


ESTHER    WATERS  343 

answered  angrily,    *'or  shall   I  have  to  get  over  the 
counter?" 

"I  suppose,  Mrs.  Latch,  yon  have  seen  a  great  deal 
of  racing?"  said  Ginger. 

"No,  sir.  I've  heard  a  great  deal  about  racing,  but 
I  never  saw  a  race  run." 

"How's  that,  shouldn't  you  care?" 

"You  see,  my  husband  has  his  betting  to  attend  to, 
and  there's  the  house  to  look  after. " 

"I  never  thought  of  it  before,"  said  William. 
"You've  never  seen  a  race  run,  no  more  you  haven't. 
Would  you  care  to  come  and  see  the  Derby  run  next 
week,  Esther?" 

"I  think  I  should." 

At  that  moment  the  policeman  stopped  and  looked 
in.  All  eyes  went  up  to  the  clock,  and  Esther  said, 
"We  shall  lose  our  licence  if "  / 

"If  we  don't  get  out,"  said  Ginger. 

William  apologised. 

"The  law  is  the  law,  sir,  for  rich  and  poor  alike;  UV  y^ 
should  be  sorry  to  hurry  you,  sir,  but  in  these  days 
very  little  will  lose  a  man  his  house.  Now,  Herbert, 
finish  your  drink.  No,  Walter,  can't  serve  any  more 
liquor  to-night.  .  .  .  Charles,  close  the  private 
bar,  let  no  one  else  in.  .  .  .  Now,  gentlemen, 
gentlemen." 

Old  John  lit  his  pipe  and  led  the  way.  William 
held  the  door  for  them.  A  few  minutes  after  the 
house  was  closed. 

A  locking  of  drawers,  fastening  of  doors,  putting 
away  glasses,  making  things  generally  tidy,  an  hour's 
work  before  bed-time,  and  then  they  lighted  their 
candle  in  the  little  parlour  and  went  upstairs. 


344  ESTHER     WATERS 

William  flung  off  his  coat.      "I'm  dead  beat,"  he 

said,  "and  all  this  to  lose "     He  didn't  finish  the 

sentence.     Esther  said — 

"You've  a  heavy  book  on  the  Derby.  Perhaps  an 
outsider '11  win." 

"I  'ope  so.  .  .  .  But  if  you'd  care  to  see  the 
race,  I  think  it  can  be  managed.  I  shall  be  busy,  but 
Journeyman  or  Ketley  will  look  after  you." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  should  care  to  walk  about  all 
day  with  Journeyman,  nor  Ketley  neither." 

They  were  both  tired,  and  w4th  an  occasional 
remark  they  undressed  and  got  into  bed.  Esther  laid 
her  head  on  the  pillow  and  closed  her  eyes.     .     .     . 

"I  wonder  if  there's  any  one  going  who  you'd  care 
for?" 

"I  don't  care  a  bit  about  it.  Bill."  The  conversa- 
tion paused.  At  the  end  of  a  long  silence  William 
said — 

"It  do  seem  strange  that  you  who  has  been  mixed  up 
in  it  so  much  should  never  have  seen  a  race."  Esther 
didn't  answer.  She  was  falling  asleep,  and  William's 
voice  was  beginning  to  sound  vague  in  her  ears.  Sud- 
denly she  felt  him  give  her  a  great  shove.  "Wake 
up,  old  girl,  I've  got  it.  Why  not  ask  your  old  pal, 
Sarah  Tucker,  to  go  with  us?  I  heard  John  say  she's 
J  out  of  situation.     It'll  be  a  nice  treat  for  her. " 

"Ah.     .     .     .     I  should  like  to  see  Sarah  again. " 

"You're  half  asleep. " 

"No,  I'm  not;  you  said  we  might  ask  Sarah  to  come 
to  the  Derby  with  us. ' ' 

William  regretted  that  he  had  not  a  nice  trap  to 
drive  them  down.  To  hire  one  would  run  into  a  deal 
of  money,  and  he  was  afraid  it  might  make  him  late  on 


ESTHER    WATERS  345 

the  course.  Besides,  the  road  wasn't  what  it  used  to 
be ;  every  one  goes  by  train  now.  They  dropped  off 
to  sleep  talking:  of  how  they  should  get  Sarah's 
address. 

Three  or  four  days  passed,  and  one  morning  William 
jumped  out  of  bed  and  said — 

'T  think  it  will  be  a  fine  day,  Esther."  He  took  out 
his  best  suit  of  clothes,  and  selected  a  handsome  silk 
scarf  for  the  occasion.  Esther  was  a  heavy  sleeper, 
and  she  lay  close  to  the  wall,  curled  up.  Taking  no 
notice  of  her,  William  went  on  dressing;  then  he  said — 
"Now  then,  Esther,  get  up.  Teddy  will  be  here 
presently  to  pack  up  my  clothes." 
"Is  it  time  to  get  up?" 

"Yes,  I  should  think  it  was.  For  God's  sake,  get 
up." 

She  had  a  new  dress  for  the  Derby.  It  had  been 
bought  in  Tottenham  Court  Road,  and  had  only  come 
home  last  night.  A  real  summer  dress!  A  lilac  pat- 
tern on  a  white  ground,  the  sleeves  and  throat  and  the 
white  hat  tastefully  trimmed  with  lilac  and  white  lace ; 
a  nice  sunshade  to  match.  At  that  moment  a  knock 
came  at  the  door. 

"All  right,  Teddy,  wait  a  moment,  my  wife's  not 
dressed  yet.     Do  make  haste,  Esther." 

Esther  stepped  into  the  skirt  so  as  not  to  ruffle  her 
hair,  and  she  was  buttoning  the  bodice  when  little  Mr. 
Blamy  entered. 

"Sorry  to  disturb  you,  ma'am,  but  there  isn't  no 
time  to  lose  if  the  governor  don't  want  to  lose  his  place 
on  the  'ill." 

"Now  then,  Teddy,  make  haste,  get  the  toggery  out; 
don't  stand  there  talking." 


346  BSTHBR    WATERS 

The  little  man  spread  the  Gladstone  bag  upon  the 
floor  and  took  a  suit  of  checks  from  the  chest  of 
drawers,  each  square  of  black  and  white  nearly  as 
large  as  a  sixpence. 

"You'll  wear  the  green  tie,  sir?"  William  nodded. 
The  green  tie  was  a  yard  of  flowing  sea-green  silk. 
'*rve  got  you  a  bunch  of  yellow  flowers,  sir;  will  you 
wear  them  now,  or  shall  I  put  them  in  the  bag?" 

William  glanced  at  the  bouquet.  "They  look  a  bit 
loud,"  he  said;  "I'll  wait  till  we  get  on  the  course; 
put  them  in  the  bag. ' ' 

The  card  to  be  worn  in  the  white  hat — "William 
Latch,  London,"  in  gold  letters  on  a  green  ground — 
was  laid  on  top.  The  boots  with  soles  three  inches 
high  went  into  the  box  on  which  William  stood  while 
he  halloaed  his  prices  to  the  crowd.  Then  there  were 
the  two  poles  which  supported  a  strip  of  white  linen, 
on  which  was  written  in  gold  letters,  "William  Latch, 
'The  King's  Head,'  London.  Fair  prices,  prompt  pay- 
ment." 

It  was  a  grey  day,  with  shafts  of  sunlight  coming 
through,  and  as  the  cab  passed  over  Waterloo  Bridge, 
London,  various  embankments  and  St.  Pauls  on  one 
side,  wharves  and  warehouses  on  the  other,  appeared 
in  grey  curves  and  straight  silhouettes.  The  pave- 
ments were  lined  with  young  men — here  and  there  a 
girl's  dress  was  a  spot  of  colour  in  the  grey  morn- 
ing. At  the  station  they  met  Journeyman  and  old 
John,  but  Sarah  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  William 
said — 

"We  shall  be  late ;  we  shall  have  to  go  without  her. " 

Esther's  face  clouded.  "We  can't  go  without  her; 
don't  be  so   impatient."      At  that    moment  a  white 


ESTHER     WATERS  347 

muslin  was  seen  in  the  distance,  and  Esther  said,  "I 
think  that  that's  Sarah." 

"You  can  chatter  in  the  train — you'll  have  a  whole 
hour  to  talk  about  each  other's  dress;  get  in,  get  in," 
and  William  pressed  them  into  a  third-class  carriage. 
They  had  not  seen  each  other  for  so  long  a  while,  and 
there  was  so  much  to  say  that  they  did  not  know  where 
to  begin.     Sarah  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"It  was  kind  of  you  to  think  of  me.  So  you've 
married,  and  to  him  after  all!"  she  added,  lowering 
her  voice. 

Esther  laughed.     "It  do  seem  strange,  don't  it?" 

"You'll  tell  me  all  about  it,"  she  said.  "I  wonder 
we  didn't  run  across  one  another  before." 

They  rolled  out  of  the  grey  station  into  the  light, 
and  the  plate-glass  drew  the  rays  together  till  they 
burnt  the  face  and  hands.  They  sped  alongside  of  the 
upper  windows  nearly  on  a  level  with  the  red  and  yel- 
low chimney-pots;  they  passed  open  spaces  filled  with 
cranes,  old  iron,  and  stacks  of  railway  sleepers,  pic- 
torial advertisements,  sky  signs,  great  gasometers 
rising  round  and  black  in  their  iron  cages  over-topping 
or  nearly  the  slender  spires.  A  train  steamed  along  a 
hundred-arched  viaduct;  and  along  a  black  embank- 
ment the  other  trains  rushed  by  in  a  whirl  of  wheels, 
bringing  thousands  of  clerks  up  from  the  suburbs  to 
their  city  toil. 

The  excursion  jogged  on,  stopping  for  long  inter- 
vals before  strips  of  sordid  garden  where  shirts  and 
pink  petticoats  were  blowing.  Little  streets  ascended 
the  hillsides;  no  more  trains,  'buses,  too,  had  disap- 
peared, and  afoot  the  folk  hurried  along  the  lonely 
pavements  of  their  suburbs.      At  Clapham  Junction 


348  ESTHER   WATERS 

betting  men  had  crowded  the  platform ;  they  all  wore 
grey  overcoats  with  race-glasses  slung  over  their 
shoulders.  And  the  train  still  rolled  through  the 
brick  wilderness  which  old  John  said  was  all  country 
forty  years  ago. 

The  men  puffed  at  their  pipes,  and  old  John's  anec- 
dotes about  the  days  when  he  and  the  Gaffer,  in  com- 
pany with  all  the  great  racing  men  of  the  day,  used  to 
drive  down  by  road,  were  listened  to  with  admiration. 
Esther  had  finished  telling  the  circumstances  in  which 
she  had  met  Margaret;  and  Sarah  questioned  her 
about  William  and  how  her  marriage  had  come  about. 
The  train  had  stopped  outside  of  a  little  station,  and 
the  blue  sky,  with  its  light  wispy  clouds,  became  a 
topic  of  conversation.  Old  John  did  not  like  the  look 
of  those  clouds,  and  the  women  glanced  at  the  water- 
proofs which  they  carried  on  their  arms. 

They  passed  bits  of  common  with  cows  and  a  stray 
horse,  also  a  little  rural  cemetery;  but  London  sud- 
denly began  again  parish  after  parish,  the  same  blue 
roofs,  the  same  tenement  houses.  The  train  had 
passed  the  first  cedar  and  the  first  tennis  lawn.  And 
knowing  it  to  be  a  Derby  excursion  the  players  paused 
in  their  play  and  looked  up.  Again  the  line  was 
blocked;  the  train  stopped  again  and  again.  But  it 
had  left  London  behind,  and  the  last  stoppage  was  in 
front  of  a  beautiful  June  landscape.  A  thick  meadow 
with  a  square  weather-beaten  church  showing  between 
the  spreading  trees;  miles  of  green  com,  with  birds 
flying  in  the  bright  air,  and  lazy  clouds  going  out, 
making  way  for  the  endless  blue  of  a  long  summer's 
day. 


XXXII. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  William  should  don  his 
betting  toggery  at  the  "Spread  Eagle  Inn."  It  stood 
at  the  cross-roads,  only  a  little  way  from  the  station — a 
square  house  with  a  pillared  porch.  Even  at  this 
early  hour  the  London  pilgrimage  was  filing  by. 
Horses  were  drinking  in  the  trough ;  their  drivers  were 
drinking  in  the  bar;  girls  in  light  dresses  shared 
glasses  of  beer  with  young  men.  But  the  greater  num- 
ber of  vehicles  passed  w^ithout  stopping,  anxious  to  get 
on  the  course.  They  went  round  the  turn  in  long 
procession,  a  policeman  on  a  strong  horse  occupied 
the  middle  of  the  road.  The  waggonettes  and  coaches 
had  red-coated  guards,  and  the  air  was  rent  with  the 
tooting  of  the  long  brass  horns.  Every  kind  of  dingy 
trap  went  by,  sometimes  drawn  by  two,  sometimes  by 
only  one  horse— shays  half  a  century  old  jingled 
along;  there  were  even  donkey-carts.  Esther  and 
Sarah  were  astonished  at  the  number  of  costers,  but 
old  John  told  them  that  that  was  nothing  to  what  it 
was  fifty  years  ago.  The  year  that  Andover  won  the 
block  began  seven  or  eight  miles  from  Epsom.  They 
were  often  half-an-hour  without  moving.  Such 
chaffing  and  laughing,  the  coster  cracked  his  joke  with 
the  duke,  but  all  that  was  done  away  with  now. 

"Gracious!"  said  Esther,  when  William  appeared  in 
his  betting  togger}^     "I  shouldn't  have  known  you." 

He  did  seem  very  wonderful  in  his  checks,  green 

349 


350  ESTHER    WATERS 

necktie,  yellow  flowers,  and  white  hat  with  its  gold 
inscription,  "Mr.  William  Latch,  London." 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said;  "you  never  saw  me  before 
in  these  togs — fine,  ain't  they?  But  we're  very  late. 
Mr.  North  has  offered  to  run  me  up  to  the  course,  but 
he's  only  two  places.  Teddy  and  me  must  be  getting 
along — but  you  needn't  hurry.  The  races  won't  begin 
for  hours  yet.  It's  only  about  a  mile — a  nice  walk. 
These  gentlemen  will  look  after  you.  You  know 
where  to  find  me,"  he  said,  turning  to  John  and 
Walter.  "You'll  look  after  my  wife  and  Miss  Tucker, 
won't  you?"  and  forthwith  he  and  Teddy  jumped  into 
a  waggonette  and  drove  away. 

"Well,  that's  what  I  calls  cheek,"  said  Sarah. 
"Going  off  by  himself  in  a  waggonette  and  leaving  us 
to  foot  it." 

"He  must  look  after  his  place  on  the  'ill  or  else  he'll 
do  no  betting,"  said  Journeyman.  "We've  plenty  of 
time;  racing  don't  begin  till  after  one." 

Recollections  of  what  the  road  had  once  been  had 
loosened  John's  tongue,  and  he  continued  his  remi- 
niscences of  the  great  days  when  Sir  Thomas  Hay- 
ward  had  laid  fifteen  thousand  to  ten  thousand  three 
times  over  against  the  favourite.  The  third  bet  had 
been  laid  at  this  very  spot,  but  the  Duke  would  not 
accept  the  third  bet,  saying  that  the  horse  was  then 
being  backed  on  the  course  at  evens.  So  Sir  Thomas 
had  only  lost  thirty  thousand  pounds  on  the  race. 
Journeyman  was  deeply  interested  in  the  anecdote; 
but  Sarah  looked  at  the  old  man  with  a  look  that  said, 
"Well,  if  I'm  to  pass  the  day  with  you  two  I  never 
want  to  go  to  the  Derby  again.  .  .  .  Come  on  in 
front,"  she  whispered  to  Esther,  "and  let  them  talk 


ESTHER     WATERS  351 

about  their  racing  by  themselves."  The  way  led 
through  a  field  ablaze  with  buttercups;  it  passed  by  a 
fish-pond  into  which  three  drunkards  were  gazing. 
"Do  you  hear  what  they're  saying  about  the  fish?" 
said  Sarah. 

"Don't  pay  no  attention  to  them,"  said  Esther.  "If 
you  knew  as  much  about  drunkards  as  I  do,  you'd 
want  no  telling  to  give  them  a  wide  berth.  .  .  . 
Isn't  the  country  lovely?  Isn't  the  air  soft  and 
warm?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  no  more  country.  I'm  that  glad 
to  get  back  to  town.  I  wouldn't  take  another  situa- 
tion out  of  London  if  I  was  offered  twenty  a  year." 

"But  look,"  said  Esther,  "at  the  trees.  I've  hardly 
been  in  the  country  since  I  left  Woodview,  unless  you 
call  Dulwich  the  country — that's  where  Jackie  was  at 
nurse." 

The  Cockney  pilgrimage  passed  into  a  pleasant  lane 
overhung  with  chestnut  and  laburnum  trees.  The 
spring  had  been  late,  and  the  white  blossoms  stood  up 
like  candles — the  yellow  dropped  like  tassels,  and  the 
streaming  sunlight  filled  the  leaves  with  tints  of  pale 
gold,  and  their  light  shadows  patterned  the  red  earth 
of  the  pathway.  But  very  soon  this  pleasant  pathway 
debouched  on  a  thirsting  roadway  where  tired  horses 
harnessed  to  heavy  vehicles  toiled  up  a  long  hill  lead- 
ing to  the  Downs.  The  trees  intercepted  the  view, 
and  the  blown  dust  whitened  the  foliage  and  the  way- 
side grass,  now  in  possession  of  hawker  and  vagrant. 
The  crowd  made  way  for  the  traps;  and  the  young 
men  in  blue  and  grey  trousers,  and  their  girls  in  white 
dresses,  turned  and  watched  the  four  horses  bringing 
along  the  tall  drag  crowned  w^ith  London  fashion 
13 


352  ESTHER     WATERS 

There  the  unwieldy  omnibus  and  the  brake  filled  with 
fat  girls  in  pink  dresses  and  yellow  hats,  and  there  the 
spring  cart  drawn  up  under  a  hedge.  The  cottage 
gates  were  crowded  with  folk  come  to  see  London 
going  to  the  Derby.  Outhouses  had  been  converted 
into  refreshment  bars,  and  from  these  came  a  smell 
of  beer  and  oranges;  further  on  there  was  a  lament- 
able harmonium — a  blind  man  singing  hymns  to  its 
accompaniment,  and  a  one-legged  man  holding  his  hat 
for  alms;  and  not  far  away  there  stood  an  earnest-eyed 
woman  offering  tracts,  w^arning  folk  of  their  danger, 
beseeching  them  to  retrace  their  steps. 

At  last  the  trees  ceased  and  they  found  themselves 
on  the  hill-top  in  a  glare  of  sunlight,  on  a  space  of 
worn  ground  where  donkeys  were  tethered. 

"Is  this  the  Derby?"  said  Sarah. 

"I  hope  you're  not  disappointed?" 

"No,  dear;  but  where 's  all  the  people — the  drags, 
the  carriages?" 

"We'll  see  them  presently,"  said  old  John,  and  he 
volunteered  some  explanations.  The  white  building 
was  the  Grand  Stand.  The  winning-post  was  a  little 
further  this  way. 

"Where  do  they  start?"  said  Sarah. 

"Over  yonder,  where  you  see  that  clump.  They  run 
through  the  furze  right  up  to  Tattenham  Comer." 

A  vast  crowd  swarmed  over  the  opposite  hill,  and 
beyond  the  crowd  the  women  saw  a  piece  of  open 
downland  dotted  with  bushes,  and  rising  in  gentle 
incline  to  a  belt  of  trees  which  closed  the  horizon. 
"Where  them  trees  are,  that's  Tattenham  Corner.'' 
The  words  seemed  to  fill  old  John  with  enthusiasm, 
and   he   described  how  the   horses   came   round   this 


ESTHER     WATERS  353 

side  of  the  trees.  "They  comes  right  down  that  'ere 
'ill — there's  the  dip— and  they  finishes  opposite  to 
where  we  is  standing.     Yonder,  by  Barnard's  Ring." 

"What,  all  among  the  people?"  said  Sarah. 

"The  police  will  get  the  people  right  back  up  the 
hill." 

"That's  where  we  shall  find  William,"  said  Esther. 

"I'm  getting  a  bit  peckish;  ain't  you,  dear?  He's 
o-ot  the  luncheon-basket.  .  .  .  but,  lor',  what  a  lot 
of  people!     Look  at  that." 

What  had  attracted  Sarah's  attention  was  a  boy 
walking  through  the  crowd  on  a  pair  of  stilts  fully 
eight  feet  high.  He  uttered  short  warning  cries  from 
time  to  time,  held  out  his  wide  trousers  and  caught 
pennies  in  his  conical  cap.  Drags  and  carriages  con- 
tinued to  arrive.  The  sweating  horses  were  unyoked, 
and  grooms  and  helpers  rolled  the  vehicles  into  posi- 
tion along  the  rails.  Lackeys  drew  forth  cases  of  wine 
and  provisions,  and  the  flutter  of  table-cloths  had 
begun  to  attract  vagrants,  itinerant  musicians,  for- 
tune-tellers, begging  children.  All  these  plied  their 
trades  round  the  fashion  of  grey  frock-coats  and  silk 
sun-shades.  Along  the  rails  rough  fellows  lay 
asleep ;  the  place  looked  like  a  vast  dormitory ;  they 
lay  with  their  hats  over  their  faces,  clay  pipes  sticking 
from  under  the  brims,  their  brown-red  hands  upon  the 
grey  grass. 

Suddenly  old  John  pleaded  an  appointment;  he  was 
to  meet  a  friend  who  would  give  him  the  very  latest 
news  respecting  a  certain  horse;  and  Esther,  Sarah, 
and  Journeyman  wandered  along  the  course  in  search 
of  William.  Along  the  rails  strangely-dressed  men 
stood  on  stools,   satchels  and  race-glasses  slung  over 


354  ESTHER    WATERS 

their  shoulders,  great  bouquets  in  their  button-holes. 
Each  stood  between  two  poles  on  which  was  stretched 
a  piece  of  white-coloured  linen,  on  which  was  inscribed 
their  name  in  large  gold  letters.  Sarah  read  some  of 
these  names  out:  "Jack  Hooper,  Marylebone.  All 
bets  paid."  "Tom  Wood's  famous  boxing  rooms, 
Epsom."  "James  Webster,  Commission  Agent,  Lon- 
don." And  these  betting  men  bawled  the  prices  from 
the  top  of  their  high  stools  and  shook  their  satchels, 
which  were  filled  with  money,  to  attract  custom. 
"What  can  I  do  for  you  to-day,  sir?"  they  shouted 
^vhen  they  caught  the  eye  of  any  respectably-dressed 
man.  "On  the  Der-by,  on  the  Der-by,  I'll  bet  the 
Der-by.  ...  To  w4n  or  a  place,  to  win  or  a  place, 
to  win  or  a  place — seven  to  one  bar  two  or  three,  seven 
to  one  bar  two  or  three.  .  .  .  the  old  firm,  the  old 
firtn," — like  so  many  challenging  cocks,  each  trying  to 
outshrill  the  other. 

Under  the  hill-side  in  a  quiet  hollow  had  been 
pitched  a  large  and  commodious  tent.  Journeyman 
mentioned  that  it  was  the  West  London  Gospel-tent. 
He  thought  the  parson  would  have  it  pretty  well  all  to 
himself,  and  they  stopped  before  a  van  filled  with 
barrels  of  Watford  ales.  A  barrel  had  been  taken  from 
the  van  and  placed  on  a  small  table ;  glasses  of  beer 
were  being  served  to  a  thirsty  crowd ;  and  all  around 
w^ere  little  canvas  shelters,  whence  men  shouted, 
"  'Commodation,  'commodation. " 

The  sun  had  risen  high,  and  what  clouds  remained 
floated  away  like  filaments  of  white  cotton.  The 
Grand  Stand,  dotted  like  a  ceiling  with  flies,  stood  out 
distinct  and  harsh  upon  a  burning  plain  of  blue.  The 
light  beat  fiercely  upon  the  booths,  the  carriages,  the 


ESTHER     WATERS  355 

vehicles,  the  "rings,'  the  various  stands.  The 
country  around  was  lost  in  the  haze  and  dazzle  of  the 
sunlight ;  but  a  square  mile  of  downland  fluttered  with 
flags  and  canvas,  and  the  great  mob  swelled,  and 
smoked,  and  drank,  shied  sticks  at  Aunt  Sall}^,  and 
rode  wooden  horses.  And  through  this  crush  of  per- 
spiring, shrieking  humanity  Journeyman,  Esther,  and 
Sarah  sought  vainly  for  William.  The  form  of  the 
ground  was  lost  in  the  multitude  and  they  could  only 
tell  by  the  strain  in  their  limbs  whether  they  were 
walking  up  or  down  hill.  Sarah  declared  herself  to  be 
done  up,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  she  was  per- 
suaded to  persevere  a  little  longer.  At  last  Journey- 
man caught  sight  of  the  bookmaker's  square  shoul- 
ders. 

"Well,  so  here  you  are.  What  can  I  do  for  you, 
ladies?  Ten  to  one  bar  three  or  four.  Will  that  suit 
you?" 

"The  luncheon-basket  will  suit  us  a  deal  better," 
said  Sarah. 

At  that  moment  a  chap  came  up  jingling  two  half- 
crowns  in  his  hand.  "What  price  the  favourite?"  "Two 
to  one,"  cried  William.  The  two  half-crowns  were 
dropped  into  the  satchel,  and,  thus  encouraged,  Wil- 
liam called  out  louder  than  ever,  "The  old  firm,  the 
old  firm;  don't  forget  the  old  firm."  There  was  a 
smile  on  his  lips  while  he  halloaed — a  cheery,  good- 
natured  smile,  which  made  him  popular  and  brought 
him  many  a  customer. 

"On  the  Der-by,  on  the  Der-by,  on  the  Der-by!" 
All  kinds  and  conditions  of  men  came  to  make  bets 
with  him;  custom  was  brisk;  he  could  not  join  the 
women,  who  were  busy  with  the  lunch-basket,  but  he 


i 


356  ESTHER     WATERS 

and  Teddy  would  be  thankful  for  the  biggest  drink 
they  could  get  them.  "Ginger  beer  with  a  drop  of 
whisky  in  it,  that's  about  it,  Teddy?" 

"Yes,  guv'nor,  that'll  do  for  me.  .  .  .  We're 
getting  pretty  full  on  Dewberry ;  might  come  down  a 
point,  I  think. ' ' 

"All  right,  Teddy.  .  .  .  And  if  you'd  cut  us  a 
couple  each  of  strong  sandwiches — you  can  manage  a 
couple,  Teddy?" 

"I  think  I  can,  guv'nor." 
"^There  was  a  nice  piece  of  beef  in  the  basket,  and 
Esther  cut  several  large  sandwiches,  buttering  the 
bread  thickly  and  adding  plenty  of  mustard.  When 
she  brought  them  over  William  bent  down  and 
whispered — 

"My  own  duck  of  a  wife,  there's  no  one  like  her." 

Esther  blushed  and  laughed  with  pleasure,  and 
every  trace  of  the  resentment  for  the  suffering  he  had 
occasioned  her  dropped  out  of  her  heart.  For  the  first 
time  he  was  really  her  husband ;  for  the  first  time  she 
felt  that  sense  of  unity  in  life  which  is  marriage,  and 
knew  henceforth  he  was  the  one  thing  that  she  had  to 
live  for. 
"  After  luncheon  Journeyman,  who  was  making  no 
way  with  Sarah,  took  his  leave,  pleading  that  he  had 
some  friends  to  meet  in  Barnard's  Ring.  They  were 
glad  to  be  rid  of  him.  Sarah  had  many  a  tale  to  tell ; 
and  while  listening  to  the  matrimonial  engagements 
that  had  been  broken  off,  Esther  shifted  her  parasol 
from  time  to  time  to  watch  her  tall,  gaunt  husband. 
He  shouted  the  odds,  willing  to  bet  against  every 
horse,  distributed  tickets  to  the  various  folk  that 
crowded    round    him,   each  with    his    preference,   his 


ESTHER     WATERS  357 

prejudice,  his  belief  in  omens,  in  tips,  or  in  the  talent 
and  luck  of  a  favourite  jockey.  Sarah  continued  her 
cursive  chatter  regarding  the  places  she  had  served  in. 
She  felt  inclined  for  a  snooze,  but  was  afraid  it  would 
not  look  well.  While  hesitating  she  ceased  speaking, 
and  both  women  fell  asleep  under  the  shade  of  their 
parasols.  It  was  the  shallow,  glassy  sleep  of  the  open 
air,  through  which  they  divined  easily  the  great  blur 
that  was  the  race-course. 

They  could  hear  William's  voice,  and  they  heard  a 
bell  ring  and  shouts  of  "Here  theycom.e!"  Then  a 
lull  came,  and  their  perceptions  grew  a  little  denser, 
and  when  they  awoke  the  sky  was  the  same  burning 
blue,  and  the  multitude  moved  to  and  fro  like  puppets. 

Sarah  was  in  no  better  temper  after  than  before  her 
sleep.  "It's  all  very  well  for  you,"  she  said.  "You 
have  3'our  husband  to  look  after.  .  .  .  I'll  never 
come  to  the  Derby  again  without  a  young  man.  .  . 
I'm  tired  of  sitting  here,  the  grass  is  roasting.  Come 
for  a  walk." 

They  were  two  nice-looking  English  women  of  the 
lower  classes,  prettily  dressed  in  light  gowns  with 
cheap  sunshades  in  their  cotton -gloved  hands.  Sarah 
looked  at  every  young  man  with  regretful  eyes.  In 
such  moods  acquaintanceships  are  made ;  and  she  did 
not  allow  Esther  to  shake  off  Bill  Evans,  who,  just  as 
if  he  had  never  been  turned  out  of  the  bar  of  the 
"King's  Head,"  came  up  with  his  familiar,  "Good 
morning,  ma'am — lovely  weather  for  the  races." 
Sarah's  sidelong  glances  at  the  blue  Melton  jacket  and 
the  billycock  hat  defined  her  feelings  with  sufficient 
explicitness,  and  it  was  not  probable  that  any  warning 
would  have  been  heeded.     Soon  they  were  engaged  in 


358  ESTHER     WATERS 

animated  conversation,  and  Esther  was  left  to  follow 
them  if  she  liked. 

She  walked  by  Sarah's  side,  quite  ignored,  until  she 
was  accosted  by  Fred  Parsons.  The^^  were  passing  by 
the  mission  tent,  and  Fred  was  calling  upon  the  folk  to 
leave  the  ways  of  Satan  for  those  of  Christ.  Bill 
Evans  was  about  to  answer  some  brutal  insult;  but 
seeing  that  "the  Christian"  knew  Esther  he  checked 
himself  in  time.  Esther  stopped  to  speak  to  Fred, 
and  Bill  seized  the  opportunity  to  slip  away  with 
Sarah. 

*'I  didn't  expect  to  meet  you  here,  Esther." 

"I'm   here   with   my   husband.      He    said    a    little 

pleasure " 

"This  is  not  innocent  pleasure,  Esther;  this  is 
drunkenness  and  debauchery.  I  hope  you'll  never 
come  again,  unless  you  come  with  us,"  he  said,  point- 
ing to  some  girls  dressed  as  bookmakers,  with  Salva- 
tion and  Perdition  written  on  the  satchels  hung  round 
their  shoulders.  They  sought  to  persuade  the  passers- 
by  to  come  into  the  tent.  "We  shall  be  very  glad  to 
see  you,"  they  said,  and  they  distributed  mock  racing 
cards  on  which  was  inscribed  news  regarding  certain 
imaginary  racing.  "The  Paradise  Plate,  for  all  com- 
ers," "The  Salvation  Stakes,  an  Eternity  of  Happiness 
added." 

Fred  repeated  his  request.  "I  hope  the  next  time 
you  come  here  it  will  be  with  us;  you'll  strive  to  col- 
lect some  of  Christ's  lost  sheep." 

"And  my  husband  making  a  book  yonder?" 

An  awkward  silence  intervened,  and  then  he  said — 

"Won't  you  come  in;  service  is  going  on?" 

Esther  followed  him.     In  the  tent  there  were  some 


ESTHER     WATERS  359 

benches,  and  on  a  platform  a  grey-bearded  man  with 
an  anxious  face  spoke  of  sinners  and  redemption. 
Suddenly  a  harmonium  began  to  play  a  hymn,  and, 
standing  side  by  side,  Esther  and  Fred  sang  together. 
Prayer  was  so  inherent  in  her  that  she  felt  no  sense  of 
incongruity,  and  had  she  been  questioned  she  would 
have  answered  that  it  did  not  matter  where  w^e  are,  or 
what  we  are  doing,  we  can  always  have  God  in  our 
hearts. 

Fred  followed  her  out. 

"You  have  not  forgotten  your  religion,  I  hope?" 

"No,  I  never  could  forget  that." 

"Then  why  do  I  find  you  in  such  company?  You 
don't  come  here  like  us  to  find  sinners." 

"I  haven't  forgotten  God,  but  I  must  do  my  duty  to 
my  husband.  It  would  be  like  setting  myself  up 
against  my  husband's  business,  and  you  don't  think  I 
ought  to  do  that?  A  wife  that  brings  discord  into  the 
family  is  not  a  good  wife,  so  I've  often  heard." 

"You  always  thought  more  of  your  husband  than  of 
Christ,  Esther." 

"Each  one  must  follow  Christ  as  best  he  can!  It 
would  be  wrong  of  me  to  set  myself  against  my  hus- 
band." 

"So  he  married  you?"  Fred  answered  bitterly. 

"Yes.  You  thought  he'd  desert  me  a  second  time; 
but  he's  been  the  best  of  husbands." 

"I  place  little  reliance  on  those  who  are  not  with 
Christ.  His  love  for  you  is  not  of  the  Spirit.  Let  us 
not  speak  of  him.  I  loved  you  very  deeply,  Esther.  I 
would  have  brought  you  to  Christ.  .  .  .  But  per- 
haps you'll  come  to  see  us  sometimes." 

"I  do  not  forget  Christ.     He's  always  with  me,  and 


36o  ESTHER    WATERS 

I  believe  you  did  care  for  me.  I  was  sorry  to  break  it 
off,  you  know  I  was.     It  was  not  my  fault. 

''Esther,  it  was  I  who  loved  you." 

"You  mustn't  talk  like  that.      I'm  a  married  woman. " 

"I  mean  no  harm,  Esther.  I  was  only  thinking  of 
the  past." 

"You  must  forget  all  that  .  .  .  Good-bye;  I'm 
glad  to  have  seen  you,  and  that  we  said  a  prayer 
together. ' ' 

Fred  didn't  answer,  and  Esther  moved  away,  won- 
dering where  she  should  find  Sarah. 


XXXIII. 

The  crowd  shouted.  She  looked  where  the  others 
looked,  but  saw  only  the  burnings  blue  with  the  white 
stand  marked  upon  it.  It  was  crowded  like  the  deck 
of  a  sinking  vessel,  and  Esther  wondered  at  the  excite- 
ment, the  cause  of  which  was  hidden  from  her.  She 
wandered  to  the  edge  of  the  crowd  until  she  came  to  a 
chalk  road  where  horses  and  mules  were  tethered.  A 
little  higher  up  she  entered  the  crowd  again,  and  came 
suddenly  upon  a  switchback  railway.  Full  of  laughing 
and  screaming  girls,  it  bumped  over  a  middle  hill,  and 
then  rose  slowly  till  it  reached  the  last  summit.  It 
was  shot  back  again  into  the  midst  of  its  fictitious 
perils,  and  this  mock  voyaging  was  accomplished  to  the 
sound  of  music  from  a  puppet  orchestra.  Bells  and 
drums,  a  fife  and  a  triangle,  cymbals  clashed  mechan- 
ically, and  a  little  soldier  beat  the  time.  Further  on, 
under  a  striped  awning,  were  the  wooden  horses. 
They  were  arranged  so  well  that  they  rocked  to  and 
fro,  imitating  as  nearly  as  possible  the  action  of  real 
horses.  Esther  watched  the  riders.  A  blue  skirt 
looked  like  a  riding  habit,  and  a  girl  in  salmon  pink 
leaned  back  in  her  saddle  just  as  if  she  had  been  taught 
how  to  ride.  A  girl  in  a  grey  jacket  encouraged  a 
girl  in  white  who  rode  a  grey  horse.  But  before 
Esther  could  make  out  for  certain  that  the  man  in  the 
blue  Melton  jacket  was  Bill  Evans  he  had  passed  out  of 
sight,  and  she  had  to  wait  until  his  horse  came  round 

361 


362  ESTHER     WATERS 

the  second  time.  At  that  moment  she  caught  sight  of 
the  red  poppies  in  Sarah's  hat. 

The  horses  began  to  slacken  speed.  They  went 
slower  and  slower,  then  stopped  altogether.  The 
riders  began  to  dismount  and  Esther  pressed  through 
the  bystanders,  fearing  she  would  not  be  able  to  over- 
take her  friends. 

"Oh,  here  you  are,"  said  Sarah.  "I  thought  I 
never  should  find  you  again.     How  hot  it  is!" 

"Were  you  on  in  that  ride?  Let's  have  another,  all 
three  of  us.     These  three  horses. ' ' 

Round  and  round  they  went,  their  steeds  bobbing 
nobly  up  and  down  to  the  sound  of  fifes,  drums  and 
cymbals.  They  passed  the  winning-post  many  times; 
they  had  to  pass  it  five  times,  and  the  horse  that 
stopped  nearest  it  won  the  prize.  A  long-drawn-out 
murmur,  continuous  as  the  sea,  swelled  up  from  the 
course — a  murmur  which  at  last  passed  into  words: 
"Here  they  come;  blue  wins,  the  favourite's  beat." 
Esther  paid  little  attention  to  these  cries;  she  did  not 
understand  them;  they  reached  her  indistinctly  and 
soon  died  away,  absorbed  in  the  strident  music  that 
accompanied  the  circling  horses.  These  had  now 
begun  to  slacken  speed.  .  .  .  They  went  slower  and 
slower.  Sarah  and  Bill,  who  rode  side  by  side,  seemed 
like  winning,  but  at  the  last  moment  they  glided  by 
the  winning-post.  Esther's  steed  stopped  in  time,  and 
she  was  told  to  choose  a  china  mug  from  a  great  heap. 

"You've  all  the  luck  to-day,"  said  Bill.  "Hayfield, 
who  was  backed  all  the  winter,  broke  down  a  month 
ago.  ...  2  to  I  against  Fly-leaf,  4  to  i  against 
Signet-Ring,  4  to  i  against  Dewberry,  10  to  i  against 
Vanguard,  the  winner  at  50  to  i  offered.     Your  hus- 


ESTHER    WATERS  3^3 

band  must  have  won  a  little  fortune.  Never  was  there 
such  a  day  for  the  bookies. ' ' 

Esther  said  she  was  very  glad,  and  was  undecided 
which  mug  she  should  choose.  At  last  she  saw  one  on 
which  "Jack"  was  written  in  gold  letters.  They  then 
visited  the  peep-shows,  and  especially  liked  St.  James's 
Park  with  the  Horse  Guards  out  on  parade ;  the  Span- 
ish bull-fight  did  not  stir  them,  and  Sarah  couldn't  find 
a  single  young  man  to  her  taste  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. Among  the  performing  birds  they  liked  best  a 
canary  that  climbed  a  ladder.  Bill  was  attracted  by 
the  American  strength-testers,  and  he  gave  an  exhi- 
bition of  his  muscle,  to  Sarah's  very  great  admiration. 
They  all  had  some  shies  at  cocoa-nuts,  and  passed  by 
J.  Bilton's  great  bowling  saloon  without  visiting  it. 
Once  more  the  air  was  rent  with  the  cries  of  "Here 
they  come!  Here  they  come!"  Even  the  'commoda- 
tion  men  left  their  canvas  shelters  and  pressed  forward 
inquiring  which  had  won.  A  moment  after  a  score  of 
pigeons  floated  and  flew  through  the  blue  air  and  then 
departed  in  different  directions,  some  making  straight 
for  London,  others  for  the  blue  mysterious  evening 
that  had  risen  about  the  Downs — the  sun-baked  Downs 
strewn  with  waste  paper  and  covered  by  tipsy  men  and 
women,  a  screaming  and  disordered  animality. 

"Well,  so  you've  come  back  at  last,"  said  William. 
"The  favourite  was  beaten.  I  suppose  you  know  that 
a  rank  outsider  won.     But  what  about  this  gentleman?" 

"Met  these  'ere  ladies  on  the  'ill  an'  been  showing 
them  over  the  course.     No  offence,  I  hope,  guv'nor?" 

William  did  not  answer,  '  and  Bill  took  leave  of 
Sarah  in  a  manner  that  told  Esther  that  they  had 
arranged  to  meet  again. 


364  ESTHER    WATERS 

"Where  did  you  pick  up  that  bloke?" 

*'He  came  up  and  spoke  to  us,  and  Esther  stopped 
to  speak  to  the  parson. ' ' 

"To  the  parson.     What  do  you  mean?" 

The  circumstance  was  explained,  and  William  asked 
them  what  they  thought  of  the  racing. 

"We  didn't  see  no  racing,"  said  Sarah;  "we  was  on 
the  'ill  on  the  wooden  'orses.  Esther's  'orse  won. 
She  got  a  mug;  show  the  mug,  Esther." 

"So  you  saw  no  Derby  after  all?"  said  William. 

"Saw  no  racin'!"  said  his  neighbour;  "ain't  she 
won  the  cup?" 

The  joke  was  lost  on  the  women,  who  only  per- 
ceived that  they  were  being  laughed  at. 

"Come  up  here,  Esther,"  said  William;  "stand  on 
my  box.  The  'orses  are  just  going  up  the  course 
for  the  preliminary  canter.  And  you,  Sarah,  take 
Teddy's  place.     Teddy,  get  down,  and  let  the  lady  up. ' ' 

"Yes,  guv'nor.     Come  up  'ere,  ma'am." 

"And  is  those  the  'orses?"  said  Sarah.  "They  do 
seem  small." 

The  ringmen  roared.  "Not  up  to  those  on  the  'ill, 
ma'am,"  said  one.  "Not  such  beautiful  goers,"  said 
another. 

There  were  two  or  three  false  starts,  and  then,  look- 
ing through  a  multitude  of  hats,  Esther  saw  five  or  six 
thin  greyhound-looking  horses.  They  passed  like 
shadows,  flitted  by;  and  she  was  sorry  for  the  poor 
chestnut  that  trotted  in  among  the  crowd. 

This  was  the  last  race.  Once  more  the  favourite 
had  been  beaten ;  there  were  no  bets  to  pay,  and  the 
bookmakers  began  to  prepare  for  departure.  It  was 
the  poor  little  clerks  who  were  charged  with  the  lug- 


ESTHER     WATERS  3^5 

gage.  Teddy  did  not  seem  as  if  he  would  ever  reach 
the  top  of  the  hill.  With  Esther  and  Sarah  on  either 
arm,  William  struggled  with  the  crowd.  It  was  hard 
to  get  through  the  block  of  carriages.  Everywhere 
horses  waited  with  their  harness  on,  and  Sarah  was 
afraid  of  being  bitten  or  kicked.  A  young  aristocrat 
cursed  them  from  the  box-seat,  and  the  groom  blew  a 
blast  as  the  drag  rolled  away.  It  was  like  the  instinct 
of  departure  which  takes  a  vast  herd  at  a  certain 
moment.  The  great  landscape,  half  country,  half 
suburb,  glinted  beneath  the  rays  of  a  setting  sun ;  and 
through  the  white  dust,  and  the  drought  of  the  warm 
roads,  the  brakes  and  carriages  and  every  crazy 
vehicle  rolled  towards  London;  orange  sellers,  tract- 
sellers,  thieves,  vagrants,  gipsies,  made  for  their  various 
quarters — roadside  inns,  outhouses,  hayricks,  hedges, 
or  the  railway  station.  Down  the  long  hill  the  vast 
crowd  made  its  way,  humble  pedestrians  and  carriage 
folk,  all  together,  as  far  as  the  cross-roads.  At  the 
"Spread  Eagle"  there  would  be  stoppage  for  a  parting 
drink,  there  the  bookmakers  would  change  their 
clothes,  and  there  division  would  happen  in  the  crowd 
— half  for  the  railway  station,  half  for  the  London 
road.  It  was  there  that  the  traditional  sports  of  the 
road  began.  A  drag,  with  a  band  of  exquisites  armed 
with  pea-shooters,  peppering  on  costers  who  were  get- 
ting angry,  and  threatening  to  drive  over  the  leaders. 
A  brake  with  two  poles  erected,  and  hanging  on  a 
string  quite  a  line  of  miniature  chamber-pots.  A 
horse,  with  his  fore-legs  clothed  in  a  pair  of  lady's 
drawers.  Naturally  unconscious  of  the  garment,  the 
horse  stepped  along  so  absurdly  that  Esther  and  Sarah 
thought  they'd  choke  with  laughter. 


3<56  ESTHER    WATERS 

At  the  station  William  halloaed  to  old  John,  whom 
he  caught  sight  of  on  the  platform.  He  had  backed 
the  winner — forty  to  one  about  Sultan.  It  was  Ketley 
who  had  persuaded  him  to  risk  half  a  sovereign  on  the 
horse.  Ketley  was  at  the  Derby;  he  had  met  him  on 
the  course,  and  Ketley  had  told  him  a  wonderful  story 
about  a  packet  of  Turkish  Delight.  The  omen  had 
come  right  this  time,  and  Journeyman  took  a  back 
seat. 

*' Say  what  you  like,"  said  William,  "it  is  damned 
strange;  and  if  anyone  did  find  the  way  of  reading 
them  omens  there  would  be  an  end  of  us  book- 
makers." He  was  only  half  in  earnest,  but  he 
regretted  he  had  not  met  Ketley.  If  he  had  only  had 
a  fiver  on  the  horse — 200  to  5 ! 

They  met  Ketley  at  Waterloo,  and  every  one 
wanted  to  hear  from  his  own  lips  the  story  of  the 
packet  of  Turkish  Delight.  So  William  proposed  they 
should  all  come  up  to  the  "King's  Head"  for  a  drink. 
The  omnibus  took  them  as  far  as  Piccadilly  Circus; 
and  there  the  weight  of  his  satchel  tempted  William  to 
invite  them  to  dinner,  regardless  of  expense. 

"Which  is  the  best  dinner  here?"  he  asked  the 
commissionaire. 

"The  East  Room  is  reckoned  the  best,  sir," 

The  fashion  of  the  shaded  candles  and  the  little 
tables,  ?nd  the  beauty  of  an  open  evening  bodice  and 
the  black  and  white  elegance  of  the  young  men  at 
dinner,  took  the  servants  by  surprise,  and  made  them 
feel  that  they  were  out  of  place  in  such  surroundings. 
Old  John  looked  like  picking  up  a  napkin  and  asking 
at  the  nearest  table  if  anything  was  wanted.  Ketley 
proposed  the  grill  room,  but  William,  who  had  had  a 


ESTHER     WATERS  367 

glass  more  than  was  good  for  him,  declared  that  he 
didn't  care  a  damn — that  he  could  buy  up  the  whole 
blooming  show.  The  head-waiter  suggested  a  private 
room;  it  was  abruptly  declined,  and  William  took  up 
the  menu.  *'Bisque  Soup,  what's  that?  You  ought  to 
know,  John."     John  shook  his  head.     "Ris  de  veau! 

That  reminds  me  of  when "     William  stopped  and 

looked  round  to  see  if  his  former  wife  was  in  the  room. 
Finally,  the  head-waiter  was  cautioned  to  send  them 
up  the  best  dinner  in  the  place.  Allusion  was  made 
to  the  dust  and  heat.  Journeyman  suggested  a  sluice, 
and  they  inquired  their  way  to  the  lavatories.  Esther 
and  Sarah  were  away  longer  than  the  men,  and 
stood  dismayed  at  the  top  of  the  room  till  William 
called  for  them.  The  other  guests  seemed  a  little 
terrified,  and  the  head-waiter,  to  reassure  them,  men- 
tioned that  it  was  Derby  Day. 

William  had  ordered  champagne,  but  it  had  not 
proved  to  any  one's  taste  except,  perhaps,  to  Sarah, 
whom  it  rendered  unduly  hilarious ;  nor  did  the  deli- 
cate food  afford  much  satisfaction ;  the  servants  played 
with  it,  and  left  it  on  their  plates;  and  it  was  not  until 
William  ordered  up  the  saddle  of  mutton  and  carved  it 
himself  that  the  dinner  began  to  take  hold  of  the  com- 
pany. Esther  and  Sarah  enjoyed  the  ices,  and  the 
men  stuck  to  the  cheese,  a  fine  Stilton,  which  was 
much  appreciated.  Coffee  no  one  cared  for,  and  the 
little  glasses  of  brandy  only  served  to  augment  the 
general  tipsiness.  William  hiccupped  out  an  order  for 
a  bottle  of  Jamieson  eight-year-old ;  but  pipes  were  not 
allowed,  and  cigars  were  voted  tedious,  so  they 
adjourned  to  the  bar,  where  they  were  free  to  get  as 
drunk  as  they  pleased.     William  said,  "Now  let's  'ear 


368  ESTHER     WATERS 

the  bio the  bloody  omen  that  put  ye  on  to  Sultan 

— that  blood — packet  of  Turkish  Delight." 

"Most  extra — most  extraordinary  thing  I  ever  heard 
in  my  life,  so  yer  'ere?"  said  Ketley,  staring  at  Wil- 
liam and  tr^nng  to  see  him  distinctly, 

William  nodded.  *'How  was  it?  We  want  to  'ear 
all  about  it.  Do  hold  yer  tongue,  Sarah.  I  beg  par- 
don, Ketley  is  go — going  to  tell  us  about  the  bloody 
omen.     Thought  you'd  like  to  he — ar,  old  girl." 

Allusion  was  made  to  a  little  girl  coming  home  from 
school,  and  a  piece  of  paper  on  the  pavement.  But 
Ketley  could  not  concentrate  his  thoughts  on  the  main 
lines  of  the  story,  and  it  was  lost  in  various  disserta- 
tions. But  the  company  was  none  the  less  pleased 
with  it,  and  willingly  declared  that  bookmaking  was 
only  a  game  for  mugs.  Get  on  a  whinner  at  forty  to 
one,  and  you  could  make  as  much  in  one  bet  as  a  poor 
devil  of  a  bookie  could  in  six  months,  fagging  from 
race-course  to  race-course.  They  drank,  argued,  and 
quarrelled,  until  Esther  noticed  that  Sarah  was  looking 
very  pale.  Old  John  was  quite  helpless;  Journey- 
man, who  seemed  to  know  what  he  was  doing,  very 
kindly  promised  to  look  after  him. 

Ketley  assured  the  commissionaire  that  he  was  not 
drunk ;  and  when  they  got  outside  Sarah  felt  obliged 
to  step  aside;  she  came  back,  saying  that  she  felt  a 
little  better. 

They  stood  on  the  pavement's  edge,  a  little  puzzled 
by  the  brilliancy  of  the  moonlight.  And  the  three 
men  who  followed  out  of  the  bar-room  were  agreed 
regarding  the  worthlessness  of  life.  One  said,  "I 
don't  think  much  of  it;  all  I  live  for  is  beer  and 
women."     The  phrase  caught  on  William's  ear,  and 


ESTHER     WATERS  3^9 

he  said,  "Quite  right,  old  mate,"  and  he  held  out  his 
hand  to  Bill  Evans.  "Beer  and  women,  it  always 
comes  round  to  that  in  the  end,  but  we  mustn't  let 
them  hear  us  say  it."  The  men  shook  hands,  and  Bill 
promised  to  see  Sarah  safely  home.  Esther  tried  to 
interpose,  but  William  could  not  be  made  to  under- 
stand, and  Sarah  and  Bill  drove  away  together  in  a 
hansom.  Sarah  dozed  off  immediately  on  his  shoulder, 
and  it  was  difficult  to  awaken  her  when  the  cab  stopped 
before  a  house  whose  respectability  took  Bill  by  sur- 
prise. 


XXXIV. 

Things  went  well  enough  as  long  as  her  savings 
lasted.  When  her  money  was  gone  Bill  returned  to 
the  race-course  in  the  hope  of  doing  a  bit  of  welshing. 
Soon  after  he  was  "wanted"  by  the  police;  they 
escaped  to  Belgium,  and  it  devolved  on  Sarah  to  sup- 
port him.  The  hue  and  cry  over,  they  came  back  to 
London. 

She  had  been  sitting  up  for  him ;  he  had  come  home 
exasperated  and  disappointed.  A  row  soon  began; 
and  she  thought  that  he  would  strike  her.  But  he 
refrained,  for  fear,  perhaps,  of  the  other  lodgers.  He 
took  her  instead  by  the  arm,  dragged  her  down  the 
broken  staircase,  and  pushed  her  into  the  court.  She 
heard  the  retreating  footsteps,  and  saw  a  cat  slink 
through  a  grating,  and  she  wished  that  she  too  could 
escape  from  the  light  into  the  dark. 

A  few  belated  women  still  lingered  in  the  Strand, 
and  the  city  stood  up  like  a  prison,  hard  and  stark  in 
the  cold,  penetrating  light  of  morning.  She  sat  upon 
a  pillar's  base,  her  eyes  turned  towards  the  cabmen's 
shelter.  The  horses  munched  in  their  nose-bags,  and 
the  pigeons  came  down  from  their  roosts.  She  was 
dressed  in  an  old  black  dress,  her  hands  lay  upon  her 
knees,  and  the  pose  expressed  so  perfectly  the  despair 
and  wretchedness  in  her  soul  that  a  young  man  in 
evening  clothes,  who  had  looked  sharply  at  her  as  he 
passed,  turned  and  came  back  to  her,  and  he  asked  her 

370 


ESTHER     WATERS  37i 

if  he  could  assist  her.  She  answered,  "Thank  you, 
sir. ' '  He  slipped  a  shilling  into  her  hand.  She  was 
too  broken-hearted  to  look  up  in  his  face,  and  he 
walked  away  wondering  what  was  her  story.  The 
disordered  red  hair,  the  thin,  freckled  face,  were 
expressive,  and  so  too  was  the  movement  of  her  body 
when  she  got  up  and  walked,  not  knowing  and  not  car- 
ing where  she  was  going.  There  w^as  sensation  of  the 
river  in  her  thoughts;  the  river  drew  her,  and  she 
indistinctly  remembered  that  she  would  find  relief 
there  if  she  chose  to  accept  that  relief.  The  water 
was  blue  beneath  the  sunrise,  and  it  seemed  to  offer  to 
end  her  life's  trouble.  She  could  not  go  on  living. 
She  could  not  bear  with  her  life  any  longer,  and  yet 
she  knew  that  she  would  not  drown  herself  that  morn- 
ing. There  was  not  enough  will  in  her  to  drown  her- 
self. She  was  merely  half  dead  with  grief.  He  had 
turned  her  out,  he  had  said  that  he  never  wanted  to 
see  her  again,  but  that  was  because  he  had  been 
unlucky.  She  ought  to  have  gone  to  bed  and  not 
waited  up  for  him;  he  didn't  know  what  he  was  doing; 
so  long  as  he  didn't  care  for  another  woman  there  was 
hope  that  he  might  come  back  to  her.  The  spare  trees 
rustled  their  leaves  in  the  bright  dawn  air,  and  she  sat 
down  on  a  bench  and  watched  the  lamps  going  out, 
and  the  river  changing  from  blue  to  browm.  Hours 
passed,  and  the  same  thoughts  came  and  went,  until 
with  sheer  weariness  of  thinking  she  fell  asleep. 

She  was  awakened  by  the  policeman,  and  she  once 
more  continued  her  walk.  The  omnibuses  had  begun; 
women  were  coming  from  market  w4th  baskets  on 
their  arms;  and  she  wondered  if  their  lov-ers  and  hus- 
t)ands    were    unfaithful  to   them,    if    they   would    be 


372  ESTHER     WATERS 

received  with  blows  or  knocks  when  they  returned. 
Her  slightest  mistakes  had  often,  it  seemed,  merited  a 
blow ;  and  God  knows  she  had  striven  to  pick  out  the 
piece  of  bacon  that  she  thought  he  would  like,  and  it 
was  not  her  fault  that  she  couldn't  get  any  money 
nowhere.  Why  was  he  cruel  to  her?  He  never  would 
find  another  woman  to  care  for  him  more  than  she  did. 
.  .  .  Esther  had  a  good  husband,  Esther  had  always 
been  lucky.  Two  hours  more  to  wait,  and  she  felt  so 
tired,  so  tired.  The  milk-women  were  calling  their 
ware — those  lusty  short-skirted  women  that  bring  an 
air  of  country  into  the  meanest  alley.  She  sat  down 
on  a  doorstep  and  looked  on  the  empty  Haymarket, 
vaguely  conscious  of  the  low  vice  which  still  lingered 
there  though  the  morning  was  advancing.  She  turned 
up  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  and  from  the  beginning  of 
Dean  Street  she  watched  to  see  if  the  shutters  were 
yet  down.  She  thought  they  were,  and  then  saw  that 
she  was  mistaken.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to 
wait,  and  on  the  steps  of  the  Royalty  Theatre  she 
waited.  The  sun  was  shining,  and  she  watched  the 
cab  horses,  until  the  potboy  came  through  and  began 
cleaning  the  street  lamp.  She  didn't  care  to  ask  him 
any  questions;  dressed  as  she  was,  he  might  answer 
her  rudely.  She  wanted  to  see  Esther  first.  Esther 
would  pity  and  help  her.  So  she  did  not  go  directly 
to  the  "King's  Head,"  but  went  up  the  street  a  little 
way  and  came  back.  The  boy's  back  was  turned  to 
her;  she  peeped  through  the  doors.  There  was  no 
one  in  the  bar,  she  must  go  back  to  the  steps  of  the 
theatre.  A  number  of  children  were  playing  there, 
and  they  did  not  make  way  for  her  to  sit  down.  She 
was  too  weary  to  argue  the  point,  and  walked  up  and 


ESTHER    WATERS  373 

down  the  street.     When  she  looked  through  the  doors 
a  second  time  Esther  was  in  the  bar. 

**Is  that  yon,  Sarah?" 

*'Yes,  it  is  me." 

"Then  come  in.  .  .  .  How  is  it  that  we've  not  seen 
you  all  this  time?     What's  the  matter?" 

"I've  been  out  all  night.  Bill  put  me  out  of  doors 
this  morning,  and  I've  been  walking  about  ever  since." 

"Bill  put  you  out  of  doors?     I  don't  understand." 

"You  know  Bill  Evans,  the  man  we  met  on  the  race- 
course, the  day  we  went  to  the  Derby.  ...  It  began 
there.  He  took  me  home  after  your  dinner  at  the 
'Criterion.'.   .  .   It  has  been  going  on  ever  since. " 

"Good  Lord!  .  .   .   Tell  me  about  it. " 

Leaning  against  the  partition  that  separated  the 
bars,  Sarah  told  how  she  had  left  her  home  and  gone 
to  live  with  him. 

"We  got  on  pretty  well  at  first,  but  the  police  was 
after  him,  and  we  made  off  to  Belgium.  There  we 
was  very  hard  up,  and  I  had  to  go  out  on  the  streets." 

"He  made  you  do  that?" 

"He  couldn't  starve,  could  he?" 

The  women  looked  at  each  other,  and  then  Sarah 
continued  her  story.  She  told  how  they  had  come  to 
London,  penniless.  "I  think  he  wants  to  turn  hon- 
est," she  said,  "but  luck's  been  dead  against  him.  .  .  . 
It's  that  difficult  for  one  like  him,  and  he's  been  in 
work,  but  he  can't  stick  to  it;  and  now  I  don't  know 
what  he's  doing — no  good,  I  fancy.  Last  night  I  got 
anxious  and  couldn't  sleep,  so  I  sat  up.  It  was  about 
two  when  he  came  in.  We  had  a  row  and  he  dragged 
me  downstairs  and  he  put  me  out.  He  said  he  never 
wanted  to  see  my  ugly  face  again.     I  don't  think  I'm 


374  ESTHER     WATERS 

as  bad  as  that;  I've  led  a  hard  life,  and  am  not  what  I 
used  to  be,  but  it  was  he  who  made  me  what  I  am. 
Oh,  it  don't  matter  now,  it  can't  be  helped,  it  is  all 
over  with  me.  I  don't  care  what  becomes  of  me,  only 
I  thought  I'd  like  to  come  and  tell  you.  We  was 
always  friends." 

"You  mustn't  give  way  like  that,  old  girl.  You 
must  keep  yer  pecker  up.  You're  dead  beat.  .  .  . 
You've  been  walking  about  all  night,  no  wonder. 
You  must  come  and  have  some  breakfast  with  us." 

"I  should  like  a  cup  of  tea,  Esther.  I  never 
touches  spirits  now.     I  got  over  that. ' ' 

"Come  into  the  parlour.  You'll  be  better  when 
you've  had  breakfast.  We'll  see  what  we  can  do  for 
you. ' ' 

"Oh,  Esther,  not  a  word  of  what  I've  been  telling 
you  to  your  husband.  I  don't  want  to  get  Bill  into 
trouble.  He'd  kill  me.  Promise  me  not  to  mention  a 
word  of  it.  I  oughtn't  to  have  told  you.  I  was  so 
tired  that  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  saying." 

There  was  plenty  to  eat — fried  fish,  a  nice  piece  of 
steak,  tea  and  coffee.  "You  seem  to  live  pretty  well," 
said  Sarah.  "It  must  be  nice  to  have  a  servant  of 
one's  own.     I  suppose  you're  doing  pretty  well  here." 

"Yes,  pretty  well,  if  it  wasn't  for  William's  health." 

"What's  the  matter?     Ain't  he  well?" 

"He's  been  very  poorly  lately.  It's  very  trying 
work  going  about  from  race-course  to  race-course, 
standing  in  the  mud  and  wet  all  day  long.  .  .  .  He 
caught  a  bad  cold  last  winter  and  was  laid  up  with 
inflammation  of  the  lungs,  and  I  don't  think  he  ever 
quite  got  over  it." 

"Don't  he  go  no  more  to  race  meetings?" 


ESTHER    WATERS  375 

**He  hasn't  been  to  a  race  meeting  since  the  begin- 
ning of  the  winter.  It  was  one  of  them  nasty  steeple- 
chase meetings  that  laid  him  up." 

"Do  'e  drink?" 

"He's  never  drunk,  but  he  takes  too  much.  Spirits 
don't  suit  him.  He  thought  he  could  do  what  he  liked, 
great  strong-built  fellow  that  he  is,  but  he's  found  out 
his  mistake." 

"He  does  his  betting  in  London  now,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,"  said  Esther,  hesitating — "when  he  has  any 
to  do.  I  want  him  to  give  it  up ;  but  trade  is  bad  in 
this  neighbourhood,  leastways,  with  us,  and  he  don't 
think  we  could  do  without  it. ' ' 

"It's  very  hard  to  keep  it  dark;  some  one's  sure  to 
crab  it  and  bring  the  police  down  on  you." 

Esther  did  not  answer;  the  conversation  paused, 
and  William  entered.  "Holloa!  is  that  you,  Sarah? 
We  didn't  know  what  had  become  of  you  all  this 
time."  He  noticed  that  she  looked  like  one  in  trouble, 
and  was  very  poorly  dressed.  She  noticed  that  his 
cheeks  were  thinner  than  they  used  to  be,  and  that  his 
broad  chest  had  sunk,  and  that  there  seemed  to  be 
strangely  little  space  between  it  and  his  back.  Then 
in  brief  phrases,  interrupting  each  other  frequently, 
the  women  told  the  story.     William  said — 

"I  knew  he  was  a  bad  lot.  I  never  liked  to  see  him 
inside  my  bar." 

"I  thought,"  said  Esther,  **that  Sarah  might  remain 
here  for  a  time." 

"I  can't  have  that  fellow  coming  round  my  place." 

"There's  no  fear  of  his  coming  after  me.  He  don't 
want  to  see  my  ugly  face  again.  Well,  let  him  try  to 
find  some  one  who  will  do  for  him  all  I  have  done." 


376  ESTHER    WATERS 

"Until  she  gets  a  situation,"  said  Esther.  "I  think 
that'll  be  the  best,  for  you  to  stop  here  until  you  get  a 
situation." 

"And  what  about  a  character?" 

"You  needn't  say  much  about  what  you've  been 
doing  this  last  twelve  months;  if  many  questions  are 
asked,  you  can  say  you've  been  stopping  with  us.  But 
you  mustn't  see  that  brute  again.  If  he  ever  comes 
into  that  'ere  bar,  I'll  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind. 
I'd  give  him  more  than  a  piece  of  my  mind  if  I  was 
the  man  I  was  a  twelvemonth  ago. ' '  William  coughed, 
and  Esther  looked  at  him  anxiously. 


XXXV. 

Lacking  a  parlour  on  the  ground- floor  for  the  use  of 

special  customers,  William  had  arranged  a  room 
upstairs  where  they  could  smoke  and  drink.  There 
were  tables  in  front  of  the  windows  and  chairs  against 
the  walls,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  room  a  bagatelle 
board. 

When  William  left  off  going-  to  race-courses  he  had 
intended  to  refrain  from  taking  money  across  the 
bar  and  to  do  all  his  betting  business  in  this  room. 

He  thought  that  it  would  be  safer.  But  as  his  cus- 
tomers multiplied  he  found  that  he  could  not  ask  them 
all  upstairs ;  it  attracted  more  attention  than  to  take  the 
money  quietly  across  the  bar.  Nevertheless  the  room 
upstairs  had  proved  a  success.  A  man  spent  more 
money  if  he  had  a  room  where  he  could  sit  quietly 
among  his  friends  than  he  would  seated  on  a  high 
stool  in  a  public  bar,  jostled  and  pushed  about;  so  it 
had  come  to  be  considered  a  sort  of  club  room ;  and  a 
large  part  of  the  neighbourhood  came  there  to  read  the 
papers,  to  hear  and  discuss  the  news.  And  specially 
useful  it  had  proved  to  Journeyman  and  Stack. 
Neither  was  now  in  employment ;  they  were  now  pro- 
fessional backers;  and  from  daylight  to  dark  they 
wandered  from  public-house  to  public-house,  from 
tobacconist  to  barber's  shop,  in  the  search  of  tips,  on 
the  quest  of  stable  information  regarding  the  health  of 
the  horses  and  their  trials.  But  the  room  upstairs  at 
the  "King's  Head"  was  the  centre  of  their  operations. 

377 


378  ESTHER    WATERS 

Stack  was  the  indefatigable  tipster,  Journeyman  was 
the  scientific  student  of  public  form.  His  memory  was 
prodigious,  and  it  enabled  him  to  note  an  advantage  in 
the  weights  which  would  escape  an  ordinary  observer. 
He  often  picked  out  horses  which,  if  they  did  not 
actually  win,  nearly  always  stood  at  a  short  price  in 
the  betting  before  the  race. 

The  "King's  Head"  was  crowded  during  the  dinner- 
hour.  Barbers  and  their  assistants,  cabmen,  scene- 
shifters,  if  there  was  an  afternoon  performance  at  the 
theatre,  servants  out  of  situation  and  servants  escaped 
from  their  service  for  an  hour,  petty  shopkeepers,  the 
many  who  grow  weary  of  the  scant  livelihood  that 
work  brings  them,  came  there.  Eleven  o'clock!  In 
another  hour  the  bar  and  the  room  upstairs  would  be 
crowded.  At  present  the  room  was  empty,  and 
Journeyman  had  taken  advantage  of  the  quiet  time  to 
do  a  bit  of  work  at  his  handicap.  All  the  racing  of 
the  last  three  years  lay  within  his  mind's  range;  he 
recalled  at  will  every  trifling  selling  race ;  hardly  ever 
was  he  obliged  to  refer  to  the  Racing  Calendar. 
Wanderer  had  beaten  Brick  at  ten  pounds.  Snow 
Queen  had  beaten  Shoemaker  at  four  pounds,  and 
Shoemaker  had  beaten  Wanderer  at  seven  pounds. 
The  problem  was  further  complicated  by  the  suspicion 
that  Brick  could  get  a  distance  of  ground  better  than 
Snow  Queen.  Journeyman  was  undecided.  He 
stroked  his  short  brown  moustache  with  his  thin,  hairy 
hand,  and  gnawed  the  end  of  his  pen.  In  this  moment 
of  barren  reflection  Stack  came  into  the  room. 

"Still  at  yer  'andicap,  I  see,"  said  Stack.  "How 
does  it  work  out?" 

"Pretty  well,"   said    Journeyman.      "But    I    don't 


ESTHER     WATERS  379 

think  it  will  be  one  of  my  best;  there  is  some  pretty 
hard  nuts  to  crack." 

"Which  are  they?"  said  Stack.  Journeyman  bright- 
ened up,  and  he  proceeded  to  lay  before  Stack's  intel- 
ligence what  he  termed  a  "knotty  point  in  collateral 
running." 

Stack  listened  with  attention,  and  thus  encouraged, 
Journeyman  proceeded  to  point  out  certain  distribu- 
tions of  weight  which  he  said  seemed  to  him  difficult 
to  beat. 

' '  Anyone  what  knows  the  running  would  say  there 
wasn't  a  pin  to  choose  between  them  at  the  weights. 
If  this  was  the  real  'andicap,  I'd  bet  drinks  all  round 
that  fifteen  of  these  twenty  would  accept.  And  that's 
more  than  anyone  w411  be  able  to  say  for  Courtney's 
'andicap.  The  weights  will  be  out  to-morrow;  we 
shall  see." 

"What  do  you  say  to  'alf  a  pint,"  said  Stack,  "and 
we'll  go  steadily  through  your  'andicap?  You've 
nothing  to  do  for  the  next  'alf -hour." 

Journeyman's  dingy  face  lit  up.  When  the  potboy 
appeared  in  answer  to  the  bell  he  was  told  to  bring  up 
two  half -pints,  and  Journeyman  read  out  the  weights. 
Every  now  and  then  he  stopped  to  explain  his  reasons 
for  what  might  seem  to  be  superficial,  an  unmerited 
severity,  or  an  undue  leniency.  It  was  not  usual  for 
Journeyman  to  meet  with  so  sympathetic  a  listener ;  he 
had  often  been  made  to  feel  that  his  handicapping 
was  unnecessary,  and  he  now  noticed,  and  with  much 
pleasure,  that  Stack's  attention  seemed  to  increase 
rather  than  to  diminish  as  he  approached  the  end. 
When  he  had  finished  Stack  said,  *'I  see  you've  given 
six-seven  to  Ben  Jonson.     Tell  me  why  you  did  that?" 


380  ESTHER     WATERS 

"He  was  a  good  'orse  once;  he's  broken  down  and 
aged;  he  can't  be  trained,  so  six-seven  seems  just  the 
kind  of  weight  to  throw  him  in  at.  You  couldn't  give 
him  less,  however  old  and  broken  down  he  may  be. 
He  was  a  good  horse  when  he  won  the  Great  Ebor 
Grand  Cup." 

"Do  you  think  if  they  brought  him  to  the  post  as  fit 
and  well  as  he  was  the  day  he  won  the  Ebor  that 
he'd  win?" 

"What,  fit  and  well  as  he  was  when  he  won  the 
Great  Ebor,  and  with  six-seven  on  his  back?  He'd 
walk  away  with  it. '  * 

"You  don't  think  any  of  the  three-year-olds  would 
have  a  chance  with  him?  A  Derby  winner  with  seven 
stone  on  his  back  might  beat  him." 

"Yes,  but  nothing  short  of  that.  Even  then  old 
Ben  would  make  a  race  of  it.  A  nailing  good  horse 
once.  A  little  brown  horse  about  fifteen  two,  as  com- 
pact as  a  leg  of  Welsh  mutton.  .  .  .  But  there's  no 
use  in  thinking  of  him.  They've  been  trying  for 
years  to  train  him.  Didn't  they  used  to  get  the  flesh 
off  him  in  a  Turkish  bath?  That  was  Fulton's  notion. 
He  used  to  say  that  it  didn't  matter  'ow  you  got  the 
flesh  off  so  long  as  you  got  it  off.  Every  pound  of 
flesh  off  the  lungs  is  so  much  wind,  he  used  to  say. 
But  the  Turkish  bath  trained  horses  came  to  the  post 
limp  as  old  rags.  If  a  'orse  'asn't  the  legs  you  can't 
train  him.  Every  pound  of  flesh  yer  take  off  must  put 
a  pound  'o  'ealth  on.  They'll  do  no  good  with  old 
Ben,  unless  they've  found  out  a  way  of  growing  on 
him  a  pair  of  new  forelegs.  The  old  ones  won't  do 
for  my  money." 

"But  do  you  think  that  Courtney  will  take  the  same 


ESTHER    WATERS  381 

view  of  his  capabilities  as  you  do — do  you  think  he'll 
let  him  off  as  easily  as  you  have?" 

"He  can't  give  him  much  more.  .  .  .  The  'orse  is 
bound  to  get  in  at  seven  stone,  rather  under  than 
over." 

''I'm  glad  to  'ear  yer  say  so,  for  I  know  you've  a 
headpiece,  and  'as  all  the  running  in  there."  Stack 
tapped  his  forehead.  "Now,  I'd  like  to  ask  you  if 
there's  any  three-year-olds  that  would  be  likely  to 
interfere  with  him?" 

"Derby  and  Leger  winners  will  get  from  eight 
stone  to  eight  stone  ten,  and  three-year-olds  ain't  no 
good  over  the  Cesare witch  course  with  more  than  eight 
on  their  backs." 

The  conversation  paused.  Surprised  at  Stack's 
silence,  Journeyman  said — 

"Is  there  anything  up?  Have  you  heard  anything 
particular  about  old  Ben?" 

Stack  bent  forward.  "Yes,  I've  heard  something, 
and  I'm  making  inquiries." 

"How  did  you  hear  it?" 

Stack  drew  his  chair  a  little  closer.  "I've  been  up 
at  Chalk  Farm,  the  '  Yarborough  Arms' ;  you  know, 
where  the  'buses  stop.  Bob  Barrett  does  a  deal  of 
business  up  there.  He  pays  the  landlord's  rent  for 
the  use  of  the  bar — Wednesdays,  Fridays,  and  Satur- 
days is  his  days.  Charley  Grove  bets  there  Mondays, 
Tuesdays,  and  Thursdays,  but  it  is  Bob  that  does  the 
biggest  part  of  the  business.  They  say  he's  taken  as 
much  as  twenty  pounds  in  a  morning.  You  know 
Bob,  a  great  big  man,  eighteen  stun  if  he's  an  ounce. 
He's  a  warm  'un,  can  put  it  on  thick." 

"I  know  him;  he  do  tell  fine  stories  about  the  girls; 


382  ESTHER     WATERS 

he  was  the  pick  of  the  neighbourhood,  wears  a  low 
hat,  no  higher  than  that,  with  a  big  brim.  I  know 
him.  I've  heard  that  he  'as  moved  up  that  way. 
Used  at  one  time  to  keep  a  tobacconist's  shop  in  Great 
Portland  Street." 

"That's  him,*'  said  Stack.  **I  thought  you'd  heard 
of  him." 

"There  ain't  many  about  that  I've  not  heard  of. 
Not  that  I  likes  the  man  much.  There  was  a  girl  I 
knew — she  wouldn't  hear  his  name  mentioned.  But  he 
lays  fair  prices,  and  does,  I  believe,  a  big  trade." 

"  'As  a  nice  'ome  at  Brixton,  keeps  a  trap;  his  wife 
as  pretty  a  woman  as  you  could  wish  to  lay  eyes  on. 
I've  seen  her  with  him  at  Kempton.'* 

"You  was  up  there  this  morning?" 

"Yes." 

"It  wasn't  Bob  Barrett  that  gave  you  the  tip?" 

"Not  likely."  The  men  laughed,  and  then  Stack 
said — 

"You  know  Bill  Evans?  You've  seen  him  here, 
always  wore  a  blue  Melton  jacket  and  billycock  hat ;  a 
dark,  stout,  good-looking  fellow ;  generally  had  some- 
thing to  sell,  or  pawn-tickets  that  he  would  part  with 
for  a  trifle." 

"Yes,  I  know  the  fellow.  We  met  him  down  at 
Epsom  one  Derby  Day.  Sarah  Tucker,  a  friend  of 
the  missis,  was  dead  gone  on  him." 

"Yes,  she  went  to  live  with  him.  There  was  a  row, 
and  now,  I  believe,  they're  together  again;  they  was 
seen  out  walking.  They're  friends,  anyhow.  Bill 
has  been  away  all  the  summer,  tramping.  A  bad  lot, 
but  one  of  them  sort  often  hears  of  a  good  thing." 

"So  it  was  from  Bill  Evans  that  you  heard  it." 


ESTHER    WATERS  '        3^3 

"Yes,  it  was  from  Bill.  He  has  just  come  up  from 
Eastbourne,  where  he  'as  been  about  on  the  Downs  a 
great  deal.  I  don't  know  if  it  was  the  horses  he  was 
after,  but  in  the  course  of  his  proceedings  he  heard 
from  a  shepherd  that  Ben  Jonson  was  doing  seven 
hours'  walking  exercise  a  day.  This  seemed  to  have 
fetched  Bill  a  bit.  Seven  hours  a  day  walking  exercise 
do  seem  a  bit  odd,  and  being  at  the  same  time  after 
one  of  the  servants  in  the  training  stable — as  pretty  a 
bit  of  goods  as  he  ever  set  eyes  on,  so  Bill  says— he 
thought  he'd  make  an  inquiry  or  two  about  all  this 
w^alking  exercise.  One  of  the  lads  in  the  stable  is 
after  the  girl,  too,  so  Bill  found  out  very  soon  all  he 
wanted  to  know.  As  you  says,  the  'orse  is  dicky  on 
'is  forelegs,  that  is  the  reason  of  all  the  walking  exer- 
cise." 

"And  they  thinks  they  can  bring  him  fit  to  the  post 
and  win  the  Cesarewitch  with  him  by  walking  him  all 
day?" 

"I  don't  say  they  don't  gallop  him  at  all;  they  do 
gallop  him,  but  not  as  much  as  if  his  legs  was  all  right. " 

"That  won't  do.  I  don't  believe  in  a  'orse  winning 
the  Cesarewitch  that  ain't  got  four  sound  legs,  and  old 
Ben  ain't  got  more  than  two." 

"He's  had  a  long  rest,  and  they  say  he  is  sounder 
than  ever  he  was  since  he  won  the  Great  Ebor.  They 
don't  say  he'd  stand  no  galloping,  but  they  don't  want 
to  gallop  him  more  than's  absolutely  necessary  on 
account  of  the  suspensory  ligament;  it  ain't  the  back 
sinew,  but  the  suspensory  ligament.  Their  theory  is 
this,  that  it  don't  so  much  matter  about  bringing  him 
quite  fit  to  the  post,  for  he's  sure  to  stay  the  course; 
he'd  do  that  three  times  over.  What  they  say  is  this, 
1-4 


384  ESTHER    WATERS 

that  if  he  gets  in  with  seven  stone,  and  we  brings  him 
well  and  three  parts  trained,  their  ain't  no  'orse  in 
England  that  can  stand  up  before  him.  They've  got 
another  in  the  race.  Laurel  Leaf,  to  make  the  running 
for  him;  it  can't  be  too  strong  for  old  Ben.  You  say  to 
yourself  that  he  may  get  let  off  with  six-seven.  If  he 
do  there'll  be  tons  of  money  on  him.  He'll  be  backed 
at  the  post  at  five  to  one.  Before  the  weights  come 
out  they'll  lay  a  hundred  to  one  on  the  field  in  any  of 
the  big  clubs.  I  wouldn't  mind  putting  a  quid  on  him 
if  you'll  join  me.'* 

"Better  wait  until  the  weights  come  out,"  said 
Journeyman,  "for  if  it  happened  to  come  to  Courtney's 
ears  that  old  Ben  could  be  trained  he'd  clap  seven-ten 
on  him  without  a  moment's  hesitation." 

"You  think  so?"  said  Stack. 

"I  do,"  said  Journeyman. 

"But  you  agree  with  me  that  if  he  got  let  off  with 
anything  less  than  seven  stone,  and  be  brought  fit,  or 
thereabouts,  to  the  post,  that  the  race  is  a  moral  cer- 
tainty for  him?" 

"A  thousand  to  a  brass  farthing.*' 

"Mind,  not  a  word.'* 

"Is  it  likely?" 

The  conversation  paused  a  moment,  and  Journey-' 
man  said,  "You've  not  seen  my  'andicap  for  the  Cam- 
bridgeshire.     I   wonder   what   you'd  think  of  that?" 
Stack  said  he  would  be  glad  to  see  it  another  time,  and 
suggested  that  they  go  downstairs. 

"I'm  afraid  the  police  is  in,"  said  Stack,  when  he 
opened  the  door. 

"Then  we'd  better  stop  where  we  are;  I  don't  want 
to  be  took  to  the  station. 


ESTHER     WATERS  385 

They  listened  for  some  moments,  holding  the  door 
ajar. 

'*It  ain't  the  police,"  said  Stack,  "but  a  row  about 
some  bet.     Latch  had  better  be  careful." 

The  cause  of  the  uproar  was  a  tall  young  English 
workman,  whose  beard  was  pale  gold,  and  whose  teeth 
were  white.  He  wore  a  rough  handkerchief  tied 
round  his  handsome  throat.  His  eyes  were  glassy  with 
drink,  and  his  comrades  strove  to  quieten  him. 

"Leave  me  alone,"  he  exclaimed;  "the  bet  was  ten 
half-crowns  to  one.     I  won't  stand  being  welshed." 

William's  face  flushed  up.  "Welshed!"  he  said. 
"No  one  speaks  in  this  bar  of  welshing."  He  would 
have  sprung  over  the  counter,  but  Esther  held  him 
back. 

"I  know  what  I'm  talking  about;  you  let  me  alone," 
said  the  young  workman,  and  he  struggled  out  of  the 
hands  of  his  friends.  "The  bet  was  ten  half-crowns 
to  one." 

"Don't  mind  what  he  says,  guv'nor. " 

"Don't  mind  what  I  says!"  For  a  moment  it 
seemed  as  if  the  friends  were  about  to  come  to  blows, 
but  the  young  man's  perceptions  suddenly  clouded, 
and  he  said,  "In  this  blo-ody  bar  last  Monday  .  .  . 
horse  backed  in  Tattersall's  at  twelve  to  one  taken  and 
offered." 

"He  don't  know  what  he's  talking  about;  but  no 
one  must  accuse  me  of  welshing  in  this  'ere  bar." 

"No  offence,  guv'nor;  mistakes  will  occur." 

William  could  not  help  laughing,  and  he  sent  Teddy 
upstairs  for  Monday's  paper.  He  pointed  out  that 
eight  to  one  was  being  asked  for  about  the  horse  on 
Monday  afternoon  at   Tattersall's.     The   stage   door- 


386  ESTHER     WATERS 

keeper  and  a  scene-shifter  had  just  come  over  from  the 
theatre,  and  had  managed  to  force  their  way  into  the 
jug  and  bottle  entrance.  Esther  and  Charles  had  been 
selling  beer  and  spirits  as  fast  as  they  could  draw  it, 
but  the  disputed  bet  had  caused  the  company  to  forget 
their  glasses. 

**Just  one  more  drink,"  said  the  young  man.  "Take 
the  ten  half-crowns  out  in  drinks,  guv 'nor,  that's  good 
enough.     What  do  you  say,  guv'nor?" 

"What,  ten  half-crowns?"  William  answered  angrily. 
*' Haven't  I  shown  you  that  the  *orse  was  backed  at 
Tattereall's  the  day  you  made  the  bet  at  eight  to  one?" 

*'Ten  to  one,  guv'nor." 

"I've  not  time  to  go  on  talking.  .  .  .  You're  inter- 
fering with  my  business.  You  must  get  out  of  my 
bar."- 

"Who'll  put  me  out?" 

"Charles,  go  and  fetch  a  policeman." 

At  the  word  "policeman"  the  young  man  seemed  to 
recover  his  wits  somewhat,  and  he  answered,  "You'll 
bring  in  no  bloody  policeman.  Fetch  a  policeman! 
and  what  about  your  blooming  betting — what  will 
become  of  it?"  William  looked  round  to  see  if  there 
was  any  in  the  bar  whom  he  could  not  trust.  He  knew 
everyone  present,  and  believed  he  could  trust  them  all. 
There  was  but  one  thing  to  do,  and  that  was  to  put  on 
a  bold  face  and  trust  to  luck.  "Now  out  you  go,"  he 
said,  springing  over  the  counter,  "and  never  you  set 
your  face  inside  my  bar  again. ' '  Charles  followed  the 
guv'nor  over  the  counter  like  lightning,  and  the 
drunkard  was  forced  into  the  street.  "He  don't  mean 
no  'arm,"  said  one  of  the  friends;  "he'll  come  round 
to-morrow  and  apologise  for  what  he's  said.*' 


ESTHER     WATERS  3^7 

"I  don't  want  his  apolog}%"  said  William.  "No  one 
shall  call  me  a  welsher  in  my  bar.  .  .  .  Take  your 
friend  away,  and  never  let  me  see  him  in  my  bar 
again." 

Suddenly  William  turned  very  pale.  He  was  seized 
with  a  fit  of  coughing,  and  this  great  strong  man 
leaned  over  the  counter  very  weak  indeed.  Esther  led 
him  into  the  parlour,  leaving  Charles  to  attend  to  the 
customers.  His  hand  trembled  like  a  leaf,  and  she  sat 
by  his  side  holding  it.  Mr.  Blamy  came  in  to  ask  if  he 
should  lay  one  of  the  young  gentlemen  from  the  tutor's 
thirty  shillings  to  ten  against  the  favourite.  Esther 
said  that  William  could  attend  to  no  more  customers 
that  day.  Mr .  Blamy  returned  ten  minutes  after  to 
say  that  there  was  quite  a  number  of  people  in  the  bar ; 
should  he  refuse  to  take  their  money? 

"Do  you  know  them  all?"  said  William. 

"I  think  so,  guv'nor. " 

"Be  careful  to  bet  with  no  one  you  don't  know;  but 
I'm  so  bad  I  can  hardly  speak." 

"Much  better  send  them  away,"  said  Esther. 

"Then  they'll  go  somewhere  else." 

"It  won't  matter;  they'll  come  back  to  where 
they're  sure  of  their  money." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  William  answered,  feebly. 
"I  think  it  will  be  all  right,  Teddy;  you'll  be  very 
careful.  * ' 

"Yes,  guv'nor,  I'll  keep  down  the  price.'* 


XXXVl. 

One  afternoon  Fred  Parsons  came  into  the  bar  of  the 
''King's  Head."  He  wore  the  cap  and  jersey  of  the 
Salvation  Army;  he  was  now  Captain  Parsons.  The 
bars  were  empty.  It  was  a  time  when  business  was 
slackest.  The  morning's  betting  was  over;  the  crowd 
had  dispersed,  and  would  not  collect  again  until  the 
Evening  Standard  had  come  in.  William  had  gone  for 
a  walk.  Esther  and  the  potboy  were  alone  in  the 
house.  The  potman  was  at  work  in  the  backyard, 
Esther  was  sewing  in  the  parlour.  Hearing  steps,  she 
went  into  the  bar.  Fred  looked  at  her  abashed,  he 
was  a  little  perplexed.      He  said — 

"Is  your  husband  in?  I  should  like  to  speak  to 
him. '  * 

"No,  my  husband  is  out.  I  don't  expect  him  back 
for  an  hour  or  so.     Can  I  give  him  any  message?" 

She  was  on  the  point  of  asking  him  how  he  was. 
But  there  was  something  so  harsh  and  formal  in  his 
tone  and  manner  that  she  refrained.  But  the  idea  in 
her  mind  must  have  expressed  itself  in  her  face,  for 
suddenly  his  manner  softened.  He  drew  a  deep 
breath,  and  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead. 
Then,  putting  aside  the  involuntary  thought,  he  said — 

"Perhaps  it  will  come  through  you  as  well  as  any 
other  way.  I  had  intended  to  speak  to  him,  but  I  can 
explain  the  matter  better  to  you.  .  .  .  It  is  about  the 
betting  that  is  being  carried  on  here.  We  mean  to  put 
a  stop  to  it.     That's  what  I  came  to  tell  him.     It  must 

383 


ESTHER     WATERS  389 

be  put  a  stop  to.  No  right-minded  person — it  cannot 
be  allowed  to  go  on." 

Esther  said  nothing;  not  a  change  of  expression 
came  upon  her  grave  face.  Fred  was  agitated.  The 
words  stuck  in  his  throat,  and  his  hands  were  restless. 
Esther  raised  her  calm  eyes,  and  looked  at  him.  His 
eyes  were  pale,  restless  eyes. 

"I've  come  to  warn  you,"  he  said,  "that  the  law  will 
be  set  in  motion.  ...  It  is  very  painful  for  me,  but 
something  must  be  done.  The  whole  neighbourhood 
is  devoured  by  it."  Esther  did  not  answer,  and  he 
said,  "Why  don't  you  answer,  Esther?" 

"What  is  there  for  me  to  answer?  You  tell  me  that 
you  are  going  to  get  up  a  prosecution  against  us.  I 
can't  prevent  you.  I'll  tell  my  husband  what  you 
say." 

"This  is  a  very  serious  matter,  Esther."  He  had 
come  into  command  of  his  voice,  and  he  spoke  with 
earnest  determination.  "If  \Ye  get  a  conviction 
against  you  for  keeping  a  betting-house,  you  will  not 
only  be  heavily  fined,  but  you  will  also  lose  your 
licence.  All  we  ask  is  that  the  betting  shall  cease. 
No,"  he  said,  interrupting,  "don't  deny  anything;  it 
is  quite  useless,  we  know  everything.  The  whole 
neighbourhood  is  demoralized  by  this  betting;  nothing 
is  thought  of  but  tips;  the  day's  racing — that  is  all  they 
think  about — the  evening  papers,  and  the  latest  infor- 
mation. You  do  not  know  what  harm  you're  doing. 
Every  day  we  hear  of  some  new  misfortune — a  home 
broken  up,  the  mother  in  the  workhouse,  the  daughter 
on  the  streets,  the  father  in  prison,  and  all  on  account 
of  this  betting.  Oh,  Esther,  it  is  horrible ;  think  of  the 
harm  you're  doing." 


390  ESTHER     WATERS 

Fred  Parsons'  high,  round  forehead,  his  weak  eyes, 
his  whole  face,  was  expressive  of  fear  and  hatred  of 
the  evil  which  a  falsetto  voice  denounced  with  much 
energy. 

Suddenly  he  seemed  to  grow  nervous  and  perplexed. 
Esther  was  looking  at  him,  and  he  said,  "You  don't 
answer,  Esther?" 

"What  would  you  have  me  answer?" 

"You  used  to  be  a  good,  religious  woman.  Do  you 
remember  how  we  used  to  speak  when  we  used  to  go 
for  walks  together,  when  you  were  in  service  in  the 
Avondale  road?  I  remember  you  agreeing  with  me 
that  much  good  could  be  done  by  those  who  were 
determined  to  do  it.  You  seem  to  have  changed  very 
much  since  those  days." 

For  a  moment  Esther  seemed  affected  by  these 
remembrances.   Then  she  said  in  alow,  musical  voice — 

"No,  I've  not  changed,  Fred,  but  things  has  turned 
out  different.  One  doesn't  do  the  good  that  one  would 
like  to  in  the  world;  one  has  to  do  the  good  that  comes 
!to  one  to  do.  I've  my  husband  and  my  boy  to  look  to. 
Them's  my  good.     At  least,  that's  how  I  sees  things." 

Fred  looked  at  Esther,  and  his  eyes  expressed  all  the 
admiration  and  love  that  he  felt  for  her  character. 
"One  owes  a  great  deal,"  he  said,  "to  those  who  are 
near  to  one,  but  not  everything;  even  for  their  sakes 
one  should  not  do  wrong  to  others,  and  you  must  see 
that  you  are  doing  a  great  wrong  to  your  fellow-crea- 
tures by  keeping  on  this  betting.  Public-houses  are 
bad  enough,  but  when  it  comes  to  gambling  as  well  as 
drink,  there's  nothing  for  us  to  do  but  to  put  the  law 
in  motion.  Look  you,  Esther,  there  isn't  a  shop-boy 
earning   eighteen  shillings  a  week  that   hasn't  been 


ESTHER    WATERS  39^ 

round  here  to  put  his  half-crown  on  some  horse.  This 
house  is  the  immoral  centre  of  the  neighbourhood. 
No  one's  money  is  refused.  The  boy  that  pawned  his 
father's  watch  to  back  a  horse  went  to  the  'King's 
Head'  to  put  his  money  on.  His  father  forgave  him 
again  and  again.  Then  the  boy  stole  from  the  lodgers. 
There  was  an  old  woman  of  seventy-five  who  got  nine 
shillings  a  week  for  looking  after  some  offices;  he  had 
half-a-crown  off  her.  Then  the  father  told  the  magis- 
trate that  he  could  do  nothing  with  him  since  he  had 
taken  to  betting  on  horse-races.  The  boy  is  fourteen. 
Is  it  not  shocking?  It  cannot  be  allowed  to  go  on. 
We  have  determined  to  put  a  stop  to  it.  That's  what 
I  came  to  tfeU  your  husband." 

"Are  you  sure,"  said  Esther,  and^she  bit  her  lips 
while  she  spoke,  "that  it  is  entirely  for  the  neighbour- 
hood that  you  want  to  get  up  the  prosecution?" 

"You  don't  think  there's  any  other  reason,  Esther? 
You  surely  don't  think  that  I'm  doing  this  because — 
because  he  took  you  away  from  me?" 

Esther  didn't  answer.  And  then  Fred  said,  and 
there  was  pain  and  pathos  in  his  voice,  "I  am  sorry 
you  think  this  of  me;  I'm  not  getting  up  the  prosecu- 
tion. I  couldn't  prevent  the  law  being  put  in  motion 
against  you  even  if  I  wanted  to.  ...  I  only  know  that 
it  is  going  to  be  put  in  motion,  so  for  the  sake  of  old 
times  I  would  save  you  from  harm  if  I  could.  I  came 
round  to  tell  you  if  you  did  not  put  a  stop  to  the  bet- 
ting you'd  get  into  trouble.  I  have  no  right  to  do 
what  I  have  done,  but  I'd  do  anything  to  save  you  and 
yours  from  harm." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  what  I  said.   It  was  very  good  of  you. 

"We  have  not  any  proofs  as  yet;  we  know,  of  course, 


y> 


392  ESTHER    WATERS 

all  about  the  betting,  but  we  must  have  sworn  testi- 
mony before  the  law  can  be  set  in  motion,  so  you'll  be 
quite  safe  if  you  can  persuade  your  husband  to  give  it 
up."  Esther  did  not  answer.  "It  is  entirely  on 
account  of  the  friendship  I  feel  for  you  that  made  me 
come  to  warn  you  of  the  danger.  You  don't  bear  me 
any  ill-will,  Esther,  I  hope?" 

"No,  Fred,  I  don't.  I  think  I  understand."  The 
conversation  paused  again.  "I  suppose  we  have  said 
everything. ' '  Esther  turned  her  face  from  him.  Fred 
looked  at  her,  and  though  her  eyes  were  averted  from 
him  she  could  see  that  he  loved  her.  In  another 
moment  he  was  gone.  In  her  plain  and  ignorant  way 
she  thought  on  the  romance  of  destiny.  For  if  she  had 
married  Fred  her  life  would  have  been  quite  different. 
She  would  have  led  the  life  that  she  wished  to  lead, 
but  she  had  married  William  and — well,  she  must  do 
the  best  she  could.  If  Fred,  or  Fred's  friends,  got  the 
police  to  prosecute  them  for  betting,  they  would,  as  he 
said,  not  only  have  to  pay  a  heavy  fine,  but  would 
probably  lose  their  licence.  Then  what  would  they 
do?  William  had  not  health  to  go  about  from  race- 
course to  race-course  as  he  used  to.  He  had  lost  a  lot 
of  money  in  the  last  six  months;  Jack  was  at  school — 
they  must  think  of  Jack.  This  thought  of  their  danger 
lay  on  her  heart  all  that  evening.  But  she  had  had  no 
opportunity  of  speaking  to  William  alone,  she  had  to 
wait  until  they  were  in  their  room.  Then,  as  she 
untied  the  strings  of  her  petticoats,  she  said — 

"I  had  a  visit  from  Fred  Parsons  this  afternoon." 

"That's  the  fellow  you  were  engaged  to  marry.  Is 
he  after  you  still?" 

"No,  he  came   to  speak  to  me  about  the  betting." 


ESTHER     WATERS  393 

"About  the  betting — what  is  it  to  do  with  him?" 

"He  says  that  if  it  isn't  stopped  that  we  shall  be 
prosecuted." 

"So  he  came  here  to  tell  you  that,  did  he?  I  wish  I 
had  been  in  the  bar." 

"I'm  glad  you  wasn't.  What  good  could  you  have 
done?     To  have  a  row  and  make  things  worse !" 

William  lit  his  pipe  and  unlaced  his  boots.  Esther 
slipped  on  her  night-dress  and  got  into  a  large  brass 
bedstead,  without  curtains.  On  the  chest  of  drawers 
Esther  had  placed  the  books  her  mother  had  given  her, 
and  William  had  hung  some  sporting  prints  on  the 
walls.  He  took  his  night-shirt  from  the  pillow  and  put 
it  on  without  removing  his  pipe  from  his  mouth.  He 
always  finished  his  pipe  in  bed. 

"It  is  revenge,"  he  said,  pulling  the  bed-clothes  up 
to  his  chin,  "because  I  got  you  away  from  him. " 

"I  don't  think  it  is  that;  I  did  think  so  at  first,  and  I 
said  so." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  said  he  was  sorry  I  thought  so  badly  of  him; 
that  he  came  to  warn  us  of  our  danger.  If  he  had 
wanted  to  do  us  an  injury  he  wouldn't  have  said  noth- 
ing about  it.     Don't  you  think  so?" 

"It  seems  reasonable.  Then  what  do  you  think 
they're  doing  it  for?" 

"He  says  that  keeping  a  betting-house  is  corruption 
in  the  neighbourhood. ' ' 

"You  think  he  thinks  that?" 

"I  know  he  do ;  and  there  is  many  like  him.  I  come 
of  them  that  thinks  like  that,  so  I  know.  Betting  and 
drink  is  what  my  folk,  the  Brethren,  holds  as  most 
evil." 


394  ESTHER    WATERS 

..  *'But  you've  forgot  all  about  them  Brethren?" 

\l  "No,  one  never  forgets  what  one's  brought  up  in.*' 

"But  what  do  you  think  now?" 

"I've  never  said  nothing  about  it.  I  don't  believe 
in  a  wife  interfering  with  her  husband ;  and  business 
was  that  bad,  and  your  'ealth  'asn't  been  the  same 
since  them  colds  you  caught  standing  about  in  them 
; betting  rings,  so  I  don't  see  how  you  could  help  it. 
'But  now  that  business  is  beginning  to  come  back  to  us, 
'it  might  be  as  well  to  give  up  the  betting." 
>  "It  is  the  betting  that  brings  the  business;  we 
shouldn't  take  five  pounds  a  week  was  it  not  for  the 
betting.  What's  the  difference  between  betting  on 
the  course  and  betting  in  the  bar?  No  one  says  noth- 
ing against  it  on  the  course ;  the  police  is  there,  and 
they  goes  after  the  welshers  and  persecutes  them. 
Then  the  betting  that's  done  at  Tattersall's  and  the 
Albert  Club,  what  is  the  difference?  The  Stock 
Exchange,  too,  where  thousands  and  thousands  is 
betted  every  day.  It  is  the  old  story — one  law  for  the 
rich  and  another  for  the  poor.  Why  shouldn't  the  poor 
man  'ave  his  'alf-crown's  worth  of  excitement?  The 
rich  man  can  have  his  thousand  pounds'  worth  when- 
ever he  pleases.  The  same  with  the  public  'ouses — 
there's  a  lot  of  hypocritical  folk  that  is  for  docking  the 
poor  man  of  his  beer,  but  there's  no  one  that's  for 
interfering  with  them  that  drink  champagne  in  the 
clubs.  It's  all  bloody  rot,  and  it  makes  me  sick  when 
I  think  of  it.  Them  hypocritical  folk.  Betting!  Isn't 
everything  betting?  How  can  they  put  down  betting? 
Hasn't  it  been  going  on  since  the  world  began?  Rot, 
says  I!  They  can  just  ruin  a  poor  devil  like  me,  and 
that's  about  all.     We  are   ruined,  and  the  rich  goes 


ESTHER     WATERS  395 

scot-free.  Hypocritical,  mealy-mouthed  lot.  'Let's 
say  our  prayers  and  sand  the  sugar';  that's  a.bout  it. 
I  hate  them  that  is  always  prating-  out  religion. 
When  I  hears  too  much  religion  going  about  I  says 
now's  the  time  to  look  into  their  accounts." 

William  leaned  out  of  bed  to  light  his  pipe  from  the 
candle  on  the  night-table. 

"There's  good  people  in  the  world,  people  that 
never  thinks  but  of  doing  good,  and  do  not  live  for 
pleasure." 

"  'All  work  and  no  play  makes  Jack  a  dull  boy,' 
Esther.  Their  only  pleasure  is  a  bet.  When  they've 
one  on  they've  something  to  look  forward  to;  whether 
they  win  or  lose  they  'as  their  money's  worth.  You 
know  what  I  say  is  true;  you've  seen  them,  how  they 
look  forward  to  the  evening  paper  to  see  how  the  'oss 
is  going  on  in  betting.  Man  can't  live  without  hope. 
It  is  their  only  hope,  and  I  says  no  one  has  a  right  to 
take  it  from  them." 

"What  about  their  poor  wives?  Very  little  good  their 
betting  is  to  them.  It's  all  very  well  to  talk  like  that, 
William,  but  you  know,  and  you  can't  say  you  don't, 
that  a  great  deal  of  mischief  comes  of  betting;  you 
know  that  once  they  think  of  it  and  nothing  else,  they 
neglect  their  work.  There's  Stack,  he's  lost  his  place 
as  porter;  there's  Journeyman,  too,  he's  out  of 
work." 

"And  a  good  thing  for  them;  they've  done  a  great 
deal  better  since  they  chucked  it." 

"For  the  time,  maybe;  but  who  says  it  will  go  on? 
Look  at  old  John;  he's  going  about  in  rags;  and  his 
poor  wife,  she  was  in  here  the  other  night,  a  terrible 
life  she's  'ad  of  it,     You  says  that  no  'arm  comes  of  it 


39^  ESTHER    WATERS 

What  about  that  boy  that  was  'ad  up  the  other  day,  and 
said  that  it  was  all  through  betting?  He  began  by 
pawning  his  father's  watch.  It  was  here  that  he  made 
the  first  bet.  You  won't  tell  me  that  it  is  right  to  bet 
with  bits  of  boys  like  that. ' ' 

"The  horse  he  backed  with  me  won." 

"So  much  the  worse.  .  .  .  The  boy'll  never  do 
another  honest  day's  work  as  long  as  he  lives.  .  .  . 
When  they  win,  they  'as  a  drink  for  luck;  when  they 
loses,  they  'as  a  drink  to  cheer  them  up." 

"I'm  afraid,  Esther,  you  ought  to  have  married  the 
other  chap.  He'd  have  given  you  the  life  that  you'd 
have  been  happy  in.  This  public-'ouse  ain't  suited  to 
you." 

Esther  turned  round  and  her  eyes  met  her  husband's. 
There  was  a  strange  remoteness  in  his  look,  and  they 
seemed  very  far  from  each  other. 

'*•  "I  was  brought  up  to  think  so  differently,"  she 
said,  her  thoughts  going  back  to  her  early  years  in  the 
little  southern  sea-side  home.  "I  suppose  this  betting 
^y^  and  drinking  will  always  seem  to  me  sinful  and 
wicked.  I  should  'ave  liked  quite  a  different  kind  of 
life,  but  we  don't  choose  our  lives,  we  just  makes  the 
-  best  of  them.  You  was  the  father  of  my  child,  and  it 
all  dates  from  that.** 
•    "I  suppose  it  do.** 

William  lay  on  his  back,  and  blew  the  smoke  swiftly 
from  his  mouth. 

"If  you  smoke  much  more  we  shan't  be  able  to 
breathe  in  this  room." 

"I  won't  smoke  no  more.  Shall  I  blow  the  candle 
out?" 

"Yes,  if  you  like.*' 


ESTHER     WATERS  397 

When  the  room  was  in  darkness,  just  before  they 
settled  their  faces  on  the  pillow  for  sleep,  William 
said — 

"It  was  good  of  that  fellow  to  come  and  warn  us.  I 
must  be  very  careful  for  the  future  with  whom  I  bet." 


V 


XXXVII. 

On  Sunday,  as  soon  as  dinner  was  over,  Esther  had 
intended  to  go  to  East  Dulwich  to  see  Mrs.  Lewis. 
But  as  she  closed  the  door  behind  her,  she  saw  Sarah 
coming  up  the  street. 

"Ah,  I  see  you're  going  out." 

"It  don't  matter;  won't  you  come  in,  if  it's  only  for 
a  minute?" 

"No,  thank  you,  I  won't  keep  you.  But  which  way 
are  you  going?     We  might  go  a  little  way  together." 

They  walked  down  Waterloo  Place  and  along  Pall 
Mall.  In  Trafalgar  Square  there  was  a  demonstra- 
tion, and  Sarah  lingered  in  the  crowd  so  long  that 
when  they  arrived  at  Charing  Cross,  Esther  found  that 
she  could  not  get  to  Ludgate  Hill  in  time  to  catch  her 
train,  so  th^y  went  into  the  Embankment  Gardens.  It 
had  been  raining,  and  the  women  wiped  the  seats  with 
their  handkerchiefs  before  sitting  down.  There  was 
no  fashion  to  interest  them,  and  the  band  sounded 
foolish  in  the  void  of  the  grey  London  Sunday. 
Sarah's  chatter  was  equally  irrelevant,  and  Esther 
wondered  how  Sarah  could  talk  so  much  about  nothing, 
and  regretted  her  visit  to  East  Dulwich  more  and 
more.  Suddenly  Bill's  name  came  into  the  conversa- 
tion. 

"But  I  thought  you  didn't  see  him  any  more;  you 
promised  us  you  wouldn't." 

"I  couldn't  help  it.  .   .  .   It  was  quite  an  accident. 

398 


ESTHER     WATERS  399 

One  day,  coming  back  from  church  with  Annie — that's 
the  new  housemaid — he  came  up  and  spoke  to  us." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  said,  'How  are  ye?  .  .  .  Who'd  thought  of 
meeting  you!'  " 

"And  what  did  j^ou  say?" 

"I  said  I  didn't  want  to  have  nothing  to  do  with 
him.  Annie  walked  on,  and  then  he  said  he  was  very 
sorry,  that  it  was  bad  luck  that  drove  him  to  it. ' ' 

"And  you  believed  him?" 

"I  daresay  it  is  very  foolish  of  me.  But  one  can't 
help  oneself.     Did  you  ever  really  care  for  a  man?" 

And  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  Sarah  continued 
her  babbling  chatter.  She  had  asked  him  not  to  come 
after  her;  she  thought  he  was  sorry  for  what  he  had 
done.  She  mentioned  incidentally  that  he  had  been 
away  in  the  country  and  had  come  back  with  very  par- 
ticular information  regarding  a  certain  horse  for  the 
Cesare witch.     If  the  horse  won  he'd  be  all  right. 

At  last  Esther's  patience  was  tired  out. 

"It  must  be  getting  late,"  she  said,  looking  towards 
where  the  sun  w^as  setting.  The  river  rippled,  and  the 
edges  of  the  warehouses  had  perceptibly  softened;  a 
w^ind,  too,  had  come  up  with  the  tide,  and  the  women 
shivered  as  they  passed  under  the  arch  of  Waterloo 
Bridge.  They  ascended  a  flight  of  high  steps  and 
walked  through  a  passage  into  the  Strand. 

"I  was  miserable  enough  with  him;  we  used  to  have' 
hardly  anything  to  eat;  but  I'm  more  miserable  away 
from  him.     Esther,  I  know  you'll  laugh  at  me,  but  I'm 
that  heart-broken  ...   I  can't  live  without  him  .  .  . 
I'd  do  anything  for  him.'* 

"He  isn't  worth  it." 


400  ESTHER    WATERS 

"That  don't  make  no  difference.  You  don't  know 
what  love  is ;  a  woman  who  hasn't  loved  a  man  who 
don't  love  her,  don't.  We  used  to  live  near  here.  Do 
you  mind  coming  up  Drury  Lane?  I  should  like  to 
show  you  the  house." 

"I'm  afraid   it  will  be  out  of  our  way." 

"'No,  it  won't.  Round  by  the  church  and  up  New- 
castle Street.  .  .  .  Look,  there's  a  shop  we  used  to  go 
to  sometimes.  I've  eaten  many  a  good  sausage  and 
onions  in  there,  and  that's  a  pub  where  we  often  used 
to  go  for  a  drink. ' ' 

The  courts  and  alleys  had  vomited  their  population 
into  the  Lane.  Fat  girls  clad  in  shawls  sat  round  the 
slum  opening  nursing  their  babies.  Old  women 
crouched  in  decrepit  doorways,  fumbling  their  aprons; 
skipping  ropes  whirled  in  the  roadway.  A  little 
higher  up  a  vendor  of  cheap  ices  had  set  up  his  store 
and  was  rapidly  absorbing  all  the  pennies  of  the 
neighborhood.  Esther  and  Sarah  turned  into  a  dilapi- 
dated court,  where  a  hag  argued  the  price  of  trotters 
with  a  family  leaning  one  over  the  other  out  of  a 
second-floor  window.  This  was  the  block  in  which 
Sarah  had  lived.  A  space  had  been  cleared  by  the 
builder,  and  the  other  side  was  shut  in  by  the  great 
wall  of  the  old  theatre. 

"That's  where  we  used  to  live,"  said  Sarah,  pointing 
up  to  the  third  floor.  "I  fancy  our  house  will  soon 
come  down.  When  I  see  the  old  place  it  all  comes 
back  to  me.  I  remember  pawning  a  dress  over  the 
way  in  the  lane ;  they  would  only  lend  me  a  shilling  on 
it.  And  you  see  that  shop — the  shutters  is  up,  it  being 
Sunday;  it  is  a  sort  of  butcher's,  cheap  meat,  livers  and 
lights,  trotters,  and  such-like.     I  bought  a  bullock's 


Esther  waters  401 

heart  there,  and  stewed  it  down  with  some  potatoes ; 
we  did  enjoy  it,  I  can  tell  you." 

Sarah  talked  so  eagerly  of  herself  that  Esther  had 
not  the  heart  to  interrupt  her.  They  made  their  way 
out  into  Catherine  Street,  and  then  to  Endell  Street, 
and  then  going  round  to  St.  Giles'  Church,  they 
plunged  into  the  labyrinth  of  Soho. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  tiring  you.  I  don't  see  what  inter- 
est all  this  can  be  to  you." 

"We've  known  each  other  a  long  time. " 

Sarah  looked  at  her,  and  then,  unable  to  resist  the 
temptation,  she  continued  her  narrative — Bill  had  said 
this,  she  had  said  that.  She  rattled  on,  until  they 
came  to  the  corner  of  Old  Compton  Street.  Esther, 
who  was  a  little  tired  of  her,  held  out  her  hand.  "I 
suppose  you  must  be  getting  back ;  would  you  like  a 
drop  of  something?" 

"It  is  going  on  for  seven  o'clock;  but  since  you're 
that  kind  I  think  I'd  like  a  glass  of  beer." 

"Do  you  listen  much  to  the  betting  talk  here  of  an 
evening?"  Sarah  asked,  as  she  was  leaving. 

"I  don't  pay  much  attention,  but  I  can't  help  hear- 
ing a  good  deal." 

"Do  they  talk  much  about  Ben  Jonson  for  the 
Cesarewitch?" 

"They  do,  indeed;  he's  all  the  go." 

Sarah's  face  brightened  perceptibly,  and  Esther 
said — 

"Have  you  backed  him?' 

"Only  a  trifle;  half-a-crown  that  a  friend  put  me  on. 
Do  they  say  he'll  win?" 

"They  say  that  if  he  don't  break  down  he'll  win  by 
'alf  a  mile;  it  all  depends  on  his  leg," 


402  ESTHER    WATERS 

"Is  he  coming  on  in  the  betting?" 

'*Yes,  I  believe  they're  now  taking  12  to  i  about 
him.     But  I'll  ask  William,  if  you  like." 

"No,  no,  I  only  wanted  to  know  if  you'd  heard  any- 
thing new.** 


XXXVIII. 

During  the  next  fortnight  Sarah  came  several  times 
to  the  "King's  Head."  She  came  in  about  nine  in  the 
evening,  and  stayed  for  half-an-hour  or  more.  The 
ostensible  object  of  her  visit  was  to  see  Esther,  but 
she  declined  to  come  into  the  private  bar,  where  they 
would  have  chatted  comfortably,  and  remained  in  the 
public  bar  listening  to  the  men's  conversation,  listen- 
ing and  noddiiig  while  old  John  explained  the  horse's 
staying  power  to  her.  On  the  following  evening  all 
her  interest  was  in  Ketley.  She  wanted  to  know  if 
anything  had  happened  that  might  be  considered  as  an 
omen.  She  said  she  had  dreamed  about  the  race,  but 
her  dream  was  only  a  lot  of  foolish  rubbish  without 
head  or  tail.  Ketley  argued  earnestly  against  this 
view  of  a  serious  subject,  and  in  the  hope  of  convinc- 
ing her  of  her  error  offered  to  walk  as  far  as  Oxford 
Street  with  her  and  put  her  into  her  'bus.  But  on  the 
following  evening  all  her  interest  was  centered  in  Mr. 
Journeyman,  who  declared  that  he  could  prove  that 
according  to  the  weight  it  seemed  to  him  to  look  more 
and  more  like  a  certainty.  He  had  let  the  horse  in  at 
six  stone  ten  pounds,  the  official  handicapper  had  only 
given  him  six  stone  seven  pounds. 

"They  is  a-sending  of  him  along  this  week,  and  if 
the  leg  don't  go  it  is  a  hundred  pound  to  a  brass  far- 
thing on  the  old  horse." 

"How  many  times  will  they  gallop  him?"  Sarah 
asked. 

403 


404  ESTHER     WATERS 

*'He  goes  a  mile  and  a  *arf  every  day  now.  .  .  .  The 
day  after  to-morrow  they'll  try  him,  just  to  see  that 
he  hasn't  lost  his  turn  of  speed,  and  if  he  don't  break 
down  in  the  trial  you  can  take  it  from  me  that  it  will 
be  all  right." 

"When  will  you  know  the  result  of  the  trial?" 

**I  expect  a  letter  on  Friday  morning,"  said  Stack. 
*'If  you  come  in  in  the  evening  I'll  let  you  know 
about  it." 

''Thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Stack.  I  must  be  get- 
ting home  now." 

"I'm  going  your  way,  Miss  Tucker.  .  .  .  If  you  like 
we'll  go  together,  and  I'll  tell  you,"  he  whispered, 
"all  about  the  'orse, " 

When  they  had  left  the  bar  the  conversation  turned 
on  racing  as  an  occupation  for  women. 

"Fancy  my  wife  making  a  book  on  the  course.  I 
bet  she'd  overlay  it  and  then  turn  round  and  back  the 
favorite  at  a  shorter  price  than  she'd  been  laying." 

"I  don't  know  that  we  should  be  any  foolisher  than 
you,"  said  Esther;  "don't  you  never  go  and  overlay 
your  book?  What  about  Syntax  and  the  'orse  you  told 
me  about  last  week?" 

William  had  been  heavily  hit  last  week  through 
overlaying  his  book  against  a  horse  he  didn't  believe 
in,  and  the  whole  bar  joined  in  the  laugh  against  him. 

"I  don't  say  nothing  about  bookmaking,"  said 
Journeyman;  "but  there's  a  great  many  women  nowa- 
days who  is  mighty  sharp  at  spotting  a  'orse  that  the 
handicapper  had  let  in  pretty  easy. ' ' 

"This  one,"  said  Ketley,  jerking  his  thumb  in  the 
direction  that  Stack  and  Sarah  had  gone,  "seems  to 
*ave  got  hold  of  something," 


ESTHER    WATERS  405 

*'We  must  ask  Stack  when  he  comes  back,"  and 
Journeyman  winked  at  William. 

"Women  do  get  that  excited  over  trifles,"  old  John 
remarked,  sarcastically.  "She  ain't  got  above  'alf-a- 
crown  on  the  'orse,  if  that.  She  don't  care  about  the 
'orse  or  the  race — no  woman  ever  did;  it's  all  about 
some  sweetheart  that's  been  piling  it  on. " 

"I  wonder  if  you're  right,"  said  Esther,  reflectively. 
' '  I  never  knew  her  before  to  take  such  an  interest  in  a 
horse-race." 

On  the  day  of  the  race  Sarah  came  into  the  private 
bar  about  three  o'clock.     The  news  was  not  yet  in. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  step  into  the  parlour;  you'll 
be  more  comfortable?"  said  Esther. 

"No  thank  you,  dear;  it  is  not  worth  while.  I 
thought  I'd  like  to  know  which  won,  that's  all." 

"Have  you  much  on?" 

"No,  five  shillings  altogether.  .  .  .  But  a  friend  of 
mine  stands  to  win  a  good  bit.  I  see  you've  got  a  new 
dress,  dear.     When  did  you  get  it?" 

"I've  had  the  stuff  by  me  some  time.  I  only  had  it 
made  up  last  month.     Do  you  like  it?" 

Sarah  answered  that  she  thought  it  very  pretty. 
But  Esther  could  see  that  she  was  thinking  of  some- 
thing quite  different. 

"The  race  is  over  now.     It's  rtm  at  half -past  two." 

"Yes,  but  they're  never  quite  punctual ;  there  may 
be  a  delay  at  the  post." 

"I  see  you  know  all  about  it." 

"One  never  hears  of  anything  else." 

Esther  asked  Sarah  when  her  people  came  back  to 
town,  and  was  surprised  at  the  change  of  expression 
that  the  question  brought  to  her  friend's  face. 


w 


406  ESTHER    WATERS 

*' They're  expected  back  to-morrow,"  she  said. 
"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Oh,  nothing;  something  to  say,  that's  all." 

The  conversation  paused,  and  the  two  women  looked 
at  each  other.  At  that  moment  a  voice  coming  rapidly 
towards  them  was  heard  calling,  "Win-ner,  win-ner!" 

"I'll  send  out  for  the  paper,"  said  Esther. 

"No,  no  .  .  .   Suppose  he  shouldn't  have  won?" 

"Well,  it  won't  make  any  difference." 

"Oh,  Esther,  no;  some  one  will  come  in  and  tell  us. 
The  race  can't  be  over  yet;  it  is  a  long  race,  and  takes 
some  time  to  run. ' ' 

By  this  time  the  boy  was  far  away,  and  fainter  and 
fainter  the  terrible  word,  "Win-ner,  win-ner,  win- 
ner. ' ' 

"It's  too  late  now,"  said  Sarah;  "some  one'll  come 

in  presently  and  tell  us  about  it I  daresay  it 

ain't  the  paper  at  all.  Them  boys  cries  out  anything 
that  will  sell." 

/     "Win-ner,  win-ner. ' '     The  voice  was  coining  towards 
them. 

"If  he  has  won,  Bill  and  I  is  to  marry.  .  .  .  Some- 
how I  feel  as  if  he  hasn't. ' ' 

"Win-ner." 

"We  shall  soon  know."  Esther  took  a  halfpenny 
from  the  till. 

"Don't  you  think  we'd  better  wait?  It  can't  be 
printed  in  the  papers,  not  the  true  account,  and  if  h 

was   wrong "     Esther    didn't    answer;     she   gave 

Charles  the  halfpenny;  he  went  out,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  came  back  with  the  paper  in  his  hand. 
"Tornado  first,  Ben  Jonson  second.  Woodcraft  third," 
he  read  out.     "That's  a  good  thing  for  the  guv 'nor. 


ESTHER     WATERS  407 

There  was  very  few  what  backed  Tornado.  .  .  .  He's 
only  lost  some  place-money." 

"So  he  was  only  second,"  said  Sarah,  turning 
deadly  pale.     "They  said  he  was  certain  to  win." 

"I  hope  you've  not  lost  much,"  said  Esther.  "It 
wasn't  with  William  that  you  backed  him." 

"No,  it  wasn't  with  William.  I  only  had  a  few 
shillings  on.     It  don't  matter.     Let  me  have  a  drink." 

"What  will  you  have?" 

"Some  whisky." 

Sarah  drank  it  neat.  Esther  looked  at  her  doubt- 
fully. 

The  bars  would  be  empty  for  the  next  two  hours ; 
Esther  wished  to  utilize  this  time ;  she  had  some  shop- 
ping to  do,  and  asked  Sarah  to  come  with  her.  But 
Sarah  complained  of  being  tired,  and  said  she  would 
see  her  when  she  came  back. 

Esther  went  out  a  little  perplexed.  She  was 
detained  longer  than  she  expected,  and  when  she 
returned  Sarah  was  staggering  about  in  the  bar-room, 
asking  Charles  for  one  more  drink. 

"All  bloody  rot;  who  says  I'm  drunk?  I  ain't  .  .  . 
look  at  me.  The  'orse  did  not  win,  did  he?  I  say  he 
did;  papers  all  so  much  bloody  rot." 

"Oh,  Sarah,  what  is  this?" 

"Who's  this?     Leave  go,  I  say." 

"Mr.  Stack,  won't  you  ask  her  to  come  upstairs? 
.  .   .   .   Don't  encourage  her." 

"Upstairs?  I'm  a  free  woman.  I  don't  want  to  go 
upstairs.  I'm  a  free  woman;  tell  me,"  she  said, 
balancing  herself  with  difficulty  and  staring  at  Esther 
with  dull,  fishy  eyes,  "tell  me  if  I'm  not  a  free  woman? 
What  do  I  want  upstairs  for?" 


4oB  ESTHER     WATERS 

"Oh,  Sarah,  come  upstairs  and  lie  down.  Don't  go 
out.  *  * 

"I'm  going  home.  Hands  off,  hands  off!"  she  said, 
slapping  Esther's  hands  from  her  arm. 

"  'For  every  one  was  drunk  last  night, 
And  drunk  the  night  before ; 
And  if  we  don't  get  drunk  to-night, 
We  won't  get  drunk  no  more. 

(Chorus.) 

"  *Now  you  will  have  a  drink  with  me. 
And  I  will  drink  with  you ; 
For  we're  the  very  rowdiest  lot 
Of  the  rowdy  Irish  crew. ' 

"That's  what  we  used  to  sing  in  the  Lane,  yer 
know;  should  'ave  seen  the  coster  gals  with  their 
feathers,  dancing  and  clinking  their  pewters.  Rippin 
Day,  Bank  'oliday,  Epping,  under  the  trees — 'ow  they 
did  romp,  them  gals! 

**  'We  all  was  roaring  drunk  last  night. 
And  drunk  the  night  before ; 
And  if  we  don't  get  drunk  to-night 
We  won't  get  di'unk  no  more/ 

Girls  and  boys,  you  know,  all  together.'* 

"Sarah,  listen  to  me." 

"Listen!  Come  and  have  a  drink,  old  gal,  just 
another  drink"  She  staggered  up  to  the  counter. 
"One  more,  just  for  luck;  do  yer  'ear?"  Before 
Charles  could  stop  her  she  had  seized  the  whisky  that 
had  just  been  served.  "That's  my  whisky,"  exclaimed 
Journeyman.    He  made  a  rapid  movement,  but  was  too 


ESTHER     WATERS  409 

late.  Sarah  had  drained  the  glass  and  stood  vacantly 
looking.. into  space.  Jonrneyman  seemed  so  discon- 
certed at  the  loss  of  his  whisky  that  every  one  laughed. 

A  few  moments  after  Sarah  staggered  forward  and 
fell  insensible  into  his  arms.  He  and  Esther  carried 
her  upstairs  and  laid  her  on  the  bed  in  the  spare  room. 

"She'll  be  precious  bad  to-morrow,"  said  Journey- 
man. 

"I  don't  know  how  you  could  have  gone  on  helping 
her,"  Esther  said  to  Charles  when  she  got  inside  the 
bar;  and  she  seemed  so  pained  that  out  of  deference  to 
her  feelings  the  subject  was  dropped  out  of  the  con- 
versation. Esther  felt  that  something  shocking  had 
happened.  Sarah  had  deliberately  got  drunk.  She 
would  not  have  done  that  unless  she  had  some  o-reat 
trouble  on  her  mind.  William,  too,  was  of  this  opin- 
ion. Something  serious  must  have  happened.  As 
they  went  up  to  their  room  Esther  said- 

"It  is  all  the  fault  of  this  betting.  The  neighbour- 
hood is  completely  ruined.  They're  losing  their  'omes 
and  their  furniture,  and  you'll  bear  the  blame  of  it." 

"It  do  make  me  so  wild  to  hear  you  talkin'  that  way, 
Esther.  People  will  bet,  you  can't  stop  them.  I  lays 
fair  prices,  and  they're  sure  of  their  money.  Yet  you 
says  they're  losin'  their  furniture,  and  that  I  shall  have 
to  bear  the  blame." 

When  they  got  to  the  top  of  the  stairs  she  said — 

"I  must  go  and  see  how  Sarah  is." 

"Where  am  I?  What's  happened?  .  .  .  Take  that 
candle  out  of  my  eyes.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  head  is  that  pain- 
ful." She  fell  back  on  the  pillow,  and  Esther  thought 
she  had  gone  to  sleep  again.  But  she  opened  her  eyes. 
"Where  am  I?.   .   .   That's  you,  Esther?" 


4IO  ESTHER    WATERS 

"Yes.     Can't  you  remember?'* 

"No,  I  can't.  I  remember  that  the  *orse  didn't  win, 
but  don't  remember  nothing  after.  ...  I  got  drunk, 
didn't  I?     It  feels  like  it." 

"The  'orse  didn't  win,  and  then  you  took  too  much. 
It's  very  foolish  of  you  to  give  way." 

"Give  way!     Drunk,  what  matter?     I'm  done  for. " 

"Did  you  lose  much?" 

"It  wasn't  what  I  lost,  it  was  what  I  took.  I  gave 
Bill  the  plate  to  pledge;  it's  all  gone,  and  master  and 
missis  coming  back  to-morrow.  Don't  talk  about  it. 
I  got  drunk  so  that  I  shouldn't  think  of  it." 

"Oh,  Sarah,  I  didn't  think  it  was  as  bad  as  that. 
You  must  tell  me  all  about  it. ' ' 

"I  don't  want  to  think  about  it.  They'll  come  soon 
enough  to  take  me  away.  Besides,  I  cannot  remem- 
ber nothing  now.     My  mouth's  that  awful Give 

me  a  drink.     Never  mind  the  glass,  give  me  the  water- 
bottle." 

She  drank  ravenously,  and  seemed  to  recover  a 
little.  Esther  pressed  her  to  tell  her  about  the  pledged 
plate.  "You  know  that  I'm  your  friend.  You'd 
better  tell  me.     I  want  to  help  you  out  of  this  scrape." 

"No  one  can  help  me  now,  I'm  done  for.  Let  them 
come  and  take  me.  I'll  go  with  them.  I  shan't  say 
nothing." 

"How  much  is  it  in  for?  Don't  cry  like  that," 
Esther  said,  and  she  took  out  her  handkerchief  and 
wiped  Sarah's  eyes.  "How  much  is  it  in  for?  Per- 
haps I  can  get  my  husband  to  lend  me  the  money  to 
get  it  out." 

"It's  no  use  trying  to  help  me.  .  .  .  Esther,  I  can't 
talk  about  it  now ;  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  do. ' ' 


ESTHER     WATERS  4" 

•*Tell  me  how  much  you  got  on  it." 

''Thirty  pounds." 

It  took  a  long  time  to  undress  her.  Every  now  and 
then  she  made  an  effort,  and  another  article  of  clothing 
was  got  off.  When  Esther  returned  to  her  room  Wil- 
liam was  asleep,  and  Esther  took  him  by  the  shoulder. 

"It  is  more  serious  than  I  thought,"  she  shouted. 
"I  want  to  tell  you  about  it." 

"What  about  it?"  he  said,  opening  his  eyes. 

"She  has  pledged  the  plate  for  thirty  pounds  to  back 
that  'orse." 

"What  'orse?"  ^ 

"Benjonson." 

"He  broke  down  at  the  bushes.      If   he  hadn't  I 
should  have  been  broke  up.     The  w^hole  neighbourhood    C^^ 
was  on  him.     So  she  pledged  the  plate  to  back  him. '  - 
She  didn't  do   that  to  back  him  herself.      Some  one 
must  have  put  her  up  to  it." 

"Yes,  it  was  Bill  Evans." 

"Ah,  that  blackguard  put  her  up  to  it.  I  thought 
she'd  left  him  for  good.  She  promised  us  that  she'd 
never  speak  to  him  again. ' ' 

"You  see,  she  was  that  fond  of  him  that  she  couldn't 
help  herself.     There's  many  that  can't." 

"How  much  did  they  get  on  the  plate?" 

"Thirty  pounds." 

William  blew  a  long  whistle.  Then,  starting  up  in 
bed,  he  said,  "She  can't  stop  here.  If  it  comes  out 
that  it  was  through  betting,  it  won't  do  this  house  any 
good.  We're  already  suspected.  There's  that  old 
sweetheart  of  yours,  the  Salvation  cove,  on  the  look- 
out for  evidence  of  betting  being  carried  on. ' ' 

"She'll  go  aw^ay  in  the  morning.      But  I  thought 


AI2  ESTHER     WATERS 

that  you  might  lend  her  the  money  to  get  the  plate 

out." 

''What!  thirty  pounds?" 

"It's  a  deal  of  money,  I  know;  but  I  thought  that 
you  might  be  able  to  manage  it.  You've  been  lucky 
over  this  race. " 

"Yes,  but  think  of  all  I've  lost  this  summer. 
This  is  the  first  bit  of  luck  I've  had  for  a  long 
while." 

' '  I  thought  you  might  be  able  to  manage  it. ' ' 

Esther  stood  by  the  bedside,  her  knee  leaned  against 
the  edge.  She  seemed  to  him  at  that  moment  as  the 
best  woman  in  the  world,  and  he  said — 

"Thirty  pounds  is  no  more  to  me  than  two-pence- 
halfpenny  if  you  wish  it,  Esther." 

"I  haven't  been  an  extravagant  wife,  have  I?"  she 
said,  getting  into  bed  and  taking  him  in  her  arms.  "I 
never  asked  you  for  money  before.  She's  my  friend 
— she's  yours  too — we've  known  her  all  our  lives.  We 
can't  see  her  go  to  prison,  can  we.  Bill,  without  rais- 
ing a  finger  to  save  her?" 

She  had  never  called  him  Bill  before,  and  the 
familiar  abbreviation  touched  him,  and  he  said — 

"I  owe  everything  to  you,  Esther;  everything  that's 
mine  is  yours.  But,"  he  said,  drawing  away  so  that  he 
might  see  her  better,  "what  do  you  say  if  I  ask  some- 
thing of  you?" 

"What  are  you  going  to  ask  me?" 

"I  want  you  to  say  that  you  won't  bother  me  no 
more  about  the  betting.  You  was  brought  up  to  think 
it  wicked.  I  know  all  that,  but  you  see  we  can't  do 
without  it." 

"Do  you  think  not?** 


ESTHER     WATERS  4^3 

''Don't  the  thirty  pounds  you're  asking  for  Sarah 
come  out  of  betting?" 

"I  suppose  it  do." 

"Most  certainly  it  do." 

"I  can't  help  feeling,  Bill,  that  we  shan't  always  be 
so  lucky  as  we  have  been." 

"You  mean  that  you  think  that  one  of  these  days  we 
shall  have  the  police  down  upon  us?" 

"Don't  you  sometimes  think  that  we  can't  always  go 
on  without  be-ing  caught?  Every  day  I  hear  of  the 
police  being  down  on  some  betting  club  or  other." 

'  'They've  been  down  on  a  great  number  lately,  but 
what  can  I  do?  We  always  come  back  to  that.  I 
haven't  the  health  to  work  round  from  race-course  to 
race-course  as  I  used  to.  But  I've  got  an  idea,  Esther. 
I've  been  thinking  over  things  a  great  deal  lately,  and 
— give  me  my  pipe — there,  it's  just  by  you.  Now,  hold 
the  candle,  like  a  good  girl. ' ' 

William  pulled  at  his  pipe  until  it  was  fully  lighted. 
He  threw  himself  on  his  back,  and  then  he  said — 

"I've  been  thinking  things  over.  The  betting  'as 
brought  us  a  nice  bit  of  trade  here.  If  we  can  work 
up  the  business  a  bit  more  we  might,  let's  say  in  a 
year  from  now,  be  able  to  get  as  much  for  the  'ouse  as 
we  gave.  .  .  .  What  do  you  think  of  buying  a  busi- 
ness in  the  country,  a  'ouse  doing  a  steady  trade? 
I've  had  enough  of  London,  the  climate  don't  suit  me 
as  it  used  to.  I  fancy  I  should  be  much  better  in  the 
country,  somewhere  on  the  South  Coast.  Bournemouth 
way,  what  do  you  think?" 

Before  Esther  could  reply  William  was  taken  with  a 
fit  of  coughing,  and  his  great  broad  frame  was  shaken 
as  if  it  were  so  much  paper. 


414  ESTHER    WATERS 

*'Vm  sure,"  said  Esther,  when  he  had  recovered 
himself  a  little,  "that  a  good  deal  of  your  trouble 
comes  from  that  pipe.  It's  never  out  of  your  mouth. 
...   I  feel  like  choking  myself." 

*'I  daresay  I  smoke  too  much.  ...  I'm  not  the  man 
I  was.  I  can  feel  it  plain  enough.  Put  my  pipe  down 
and  blow  out  the  candle.  ...  I  didn't  ask  you  how 
Sarah  was. ' ' 

"Very  bad.  She  was  half  dazed  and  didn't  tell  me 
much." 

"She  didn't  tell  you  where  she  had  pledged  the 
plate?" 

' '  No,  I  will  ask  her  about  that  to-morrow  morning.  * ' 
Leaning  forward  she  blew  out  the  candle.  The  wick 
smouldered  red  for  a  moment,  and  they  fell  asleep 
happy  in  each  other's  love,  seeming  to  find  new  bonds 
of  union  in  pity  for  their  friend's  misfortune. 


XXXIX. 

*' Sarah,  you  must  make  an  effort  and  tr>^  to  dress 
yourself," 

"Oh,  I  do  feel  that  bad,  I  wish  I  was  dead!" 

"You  must  not  give  way  like  that;  let  me  help  you 
put  on  your  stockings." 

Sarah  looked  at  Esther.  '*  You're  very  good  to  me, 
but  I  can  manage."  When  she  had  drawn  on  her 
stockings  her  strength  was  exhausted,  and  she  fell 
back  on  the  pillow. 

Esther  waited  a  few  minutes.  "Here  're  your  petti- 
coats. Just  tie  them  round  you;  I'll  lend  you  a 
dressing-gown  and  a  pair  of  slippers." 

William  was  having  breakfast  in  the  parlour. 
"Well,  feeling  a  bit  poorly?"  he  said  to  Sarah. 
"What '11  you  have?  There's  a  nice  bit  of  fried  fish. 
Not  feeling  up  to  it?" 

"Oh,  no!  I  couldn't  touch  anything."  She  let  her- 
self drop  on  the  sofa. 

"A  cup  of  tea  '11  do  you  good,'*  said  Esther.  "You 
must  have  a  cup  of  tea,  and  a  bit  of  toast  just  to 
nibble.     William,  pour  her  out  a  cup  of  tea." 

When  she  had  drunk  the  tea  she  said  she  felt  a  little 
better. 

"Now,"  said  William,  "let's  'ear  all  about  it. 
Esther  has  told  you,  no  doubt,  that  we  intend  to  do  all 
we  can  to  help  you. '  * 

"You  can't  help  me.  ...  I'm  done  for,"  she 
replied  dolefully. 

15  415 


4i6  ESTHER    WATERS 

'*I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  William.  "You 
gave  that  brute  Bill  Evans  the  plate  to  pawn,  so  far  as 
I  know. ' ' 

"There  isn't  much  more  to  tell.  He  said  the  horse 
was  sure  to  win.  He  was  at  thirty  to  one  at 
that  time.  A  thousand  to  thirty.  Bill  said  with 
that  money  we  could  buy  a  public-house  in  the 
country.     He  wanted  to  settle  down,  he  wanted  to  get 

out  of 1  don't  want   to  say  nothing  against  him. 

He  said  if  I  would  only  give  him  this  chance  of  lead- 
ing a  respectable  life,  we  was  to  be  married  imme- 
diately after." 

"He  told  you  all  that,  did  he?     He  said  he'd  give 
5^ou  a  *ome  of  your  own,  I  know.     A  regular  rotter; 
that  man  is  about  as  bad  as  they  make  'em.     And  you 
believed  it  all?" 
.     -."It    wasn't  so  much   what  I    believed    as    what    I 
\    couldn't  help  myself.     He  had  got  that  influence  over 
me  that  my  will  wasn't  my  own.     I  don't  know  how  it 
is — I  suppose  men  have  stronger  natures  than  women. 
I   'ardly  knew  what  I  was  doing;    it  was  like  sleep- 
walking.    He  looked  at  me  and  said,  'You'd  better  do 
it. '     I  did  it,  and  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  go  to  prison  for 
it.     What  I  says  is  just  the  truth,  but  no  one  believes 
i    tales  like  that.     How  long  do  you  think  they'll  give 
1    me?" 

"I  hope  we  shall  be  able  to  get  you  out  of  this 
scrape.  You  got  thirty  pounds  on  the  plate.  Esther 
has  told  you  that  I'm  ready  to  lend  you  the  money  to 
get  it  out." 

"Will  you  do  this?  You're  good  friends  indeed.  .  . 
But  I  shall  never  be  able  to  pay  you  back  such  a  lot  of 
money." 


ESTHER     WATERS  417 

**We  won't  say  nothing  about  paying  back;  all  we 
want  you  to  do  is  to  say  that  you'll  never  see  that  fel- 
low again." 

A  change  of  expression  came  over  Sarah's  face,  and 
William  said,  "You're  surely  not  still  hankering  after 
him?" 

"No,  indeed  I'm  not.  But  whenever  I  meets  him  he 
somehow  gets  his  way  with  me.  It's  terrible  to  love  a 
man  as  I  love  him.  I  know  he  don't  really  care  for 
me — I  know  he  is  all  you  say,  and  yet  I  can't  help 
myself.     It  is  better  to  be  honest  with  you." 

William  looked  puzzled.  At  the  end  of  a  long  si- 
lence he  said,  "If  it's  like  that  I  don't  see  that  we  can 
do  anything." 

"Have  patience,  William.  Sarah  don't  know  what 
she's  saying.     She'll  promise  not  to  see  him  again." 

"You're  very  kind  to  me.  I  know  I'm  very  foolish. 
I  promised  before  not  to  see  him,  and  I  couldn't  keep 
my  promise. " 

"You  can  stop  with  us  until  you  get  a  situation  in 
the  country,"  said  Esther,  "where  you'll  be  out  of  his 
way. ' ' 

"I  might  do  that." 

"I  don't  like  to  part  with  my  money,"  said  William, 
"if  it  is  to  do  no  one  any  good."  Esther  looked  at 
him,  and  he  added,  "It  is  just  as  Esther  wishes,  of 
course;  I'm  not  giving  you  the  money,  it  is  she." 

"It  is  both  of  us,"  said  Esther;  "you'll  do  what  I 
said,   Sarah?" 

"Oh,  yes,  anything  you  say,  Esther,"  and  she  flung 
herself  into  her  friend's  arms  and  wept  bitterly. 

"Now  we  want  to  know  where  you  pawTied  the 
plate,  * '  said  William. 


4i8  ESTHER     WATERS 

"A  long  way  from  here.  Bill  said  he  knew  a  place 
where  it  would  be  quite  safe.  I  was  to  say  that  my 
mistress  left  it  to  me ;  he  said  that  would  be  sufficient. 
...   It  was  in  the  Mile  End  Road. ' ' 

"You'd  know  the  shop  again?"  said  William. 

"But  she's  got  the  ticket,"  said  Esther. 

"No,  I  ain't  got  the  ticket;  Bill  has  it." 

"Then  I'm  afraid  the  game's  up." 

"Do  be  quiet,"  said  Esther,  angrily.  "If  you  want 
to  get  out  of  lending  the  money  say  so  and  have  done 
with  it." 

"That's  not  true,  Esther.  If  you  want  another 
thirty  to  pay  him  to  give  up  the  ticket,  you  can  have  it. " 

Esther  thanked  her  husband  with  one  quick  look. 
"I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  "my  temper  is  that  hasty.  But 
you  know  where  he  lives,"  she  said,  turning  to  the 
wretched  woman  who  sat  on  the  sofa  pale  and  trem- 
bling. 

"Yes,  I  know  where  he  lives — 13  Mil  ward  Square, 
Mile  End  Road." 

"Then  we've  no  time  to  lose;  we  must  go  after  him 
at  once." 

"No,  William  dear;  you  must  not;  you'd  only  lose 
your  temper,  and  he  might  do  you  an  injury." 

"An  injury!  I'd  soon  show  him  which  was  the  best 
man  of  the  two. '  * 

"I'll  not  hear  of  it,  Sarah.    He  mustn't  go  with  you.  '* 

"Come,  Esther,  don't  be  foolish.     Let  me  go." 

He  had  taken  his  hat  from  the  peg.  Esther  got 
between  him  and  the  door. 

' '  I  forbid  it, ' '  she  said ;  "  I  will  not  let  you  go — per- 
haps to  have  a  fight,  and  with  that  cough." 

William  was  coughing.     He  had  turned  pale,  and  he 


ESTHER    WATERS  4^9 

said,  leaning  against  the  table,  ''Give  me  something  to 
drink,  a  little  milk. ' ' 

Esther  poured  some  into  a  cup.  He  sipped  it 
slowly.  "I'll  go  upstairs,"  she  said,  "for  my  hat  and 
jacket.  You've  got  your  betting  to  attend  to. "  Wil- 
liam smiled.     "Sarah,  mind,  he's  not  to  go  with  you." 

"You  forget  what  you  said  last  night  about  the 
betting." 

' '  Never  mind  what  I  said  last  night  about  the  bet- 
ting; what  I  say  now  is  that  you're  not  to  leave  the 
bar.  Come  upstairs,  Sarah,  and  dress  yourself,  and 
let's  be  off." 

Stack  and  Journeyman  were  waiting  to  speak  to 
him.  They  had  lost  heavily  over  old  Ben  and  didn't 
know  how  they'd  pull  through;  and  the  whole  neigh- 
bourhood_  was  in  the  same  plight ;  the  bar  was  filled 
with  gloomy  faces. 

And  as  William  scanned  their  disconcerted  faces — 
clerks,  hair-dressers,  waiters  from  the  innumerable 
eating  houses — he  could  not  help  thinking  that  perhaps 
more  than  one  of  them  had  taken  money  that  did  not 
belong  to  them  to  back  Ben  Jonson.  The  unexpected 
disaster  had  upset  all  their  plans,  and  even  the  wary 
ones  who  had  a  little  reserve  fund  could  not  help 
backing  outsiders,  hoping  by  the  longer  odds  to 
retrieve  yesterday's  losses.  At  two  the  bar  was 
empty,  and  William  waited  for  Esther  and  Sarah  to 
return  from  Mile  End.  It  seemed  to  him  that  they 
were  a  long  time  away.  But  Mile  End  is  not  close  to 
Soho ;  and  when  they  returned,  between  four  and  five, 
he  saw  at  once  that  they  had  been  unsuccessful.  He 
lifted  up  the  flap  in  the  counter  and  all  three  went  into 
the  parlour. 


420  ESTHER    WATERS 

"He  left  Milward  Square  yesterday,"  Esther  said. 
**Then  we  went  to  another  address,  and  then  to 
another;  we  went  to  all  the  places  Sarah  had  been  to 
with  him,  but  no  tidings  anywhere." 

Sarah  burst  into  tears.  "There's  no  more  hope," 
she  said.  "I'm  done  for;  they'll  come  and  take  me 
away.  How  much  do  you  think  I'll  get?  They  won't 
give  me  ten  years,  will  they?" 

"I  can  see  nothing  else  for  you  to  do,"  said  Esther, 
"but  to  go  straight  back  to  your  people  and  tell 
them  the  whole  story,  and  throw  yourself  on  their 
mercy. ' ' 

"Do  you  mean  that  she  should  say  that  she  pawned 
the  plate  to  get  money  to  back  a  horse?" 

"Of  course  I  do." 

"It  will  make  the  police  more  keen  than  ever  on  the 
betting-houses. ' ' 

"That  can't  be  helped." 

"She'd  better  not  betook  here,"  said  William;  "it 
will  do  a  great  deal  of  harm.  ...  It  don't  make  no 
difference  to  her  where  she's  took,  do  it?" 

Esther  did  not  answer. 

"I'll  go  away.  I  don't  want  to  get  no  one  into 
trouble,"  Sarah  said,  and  she  got  up  from  the  sofa. 

At  that  moment  Charles  opened  the  door,  and  said, 
"You're  wanted  in  the  bar,  sir." 

William  went  out  quickly.  He  returned  a  moment 
after.  There  was  a  scared  look  on  his  face.  "They're 
here,"  he  said.  He  was  followed  by  two  policemen. 
Sarah  uttered  a  little  cry. 

"Your  name  is  Sarah  Tucker?"  said  the  first  police- 
man. 

"Yes." 


ESTHER     WATERS  421 

"You're  charged  with  robbery  by  Mr.  Sheldon,  34, 
Cumberland  Place." 

"Shall  I  be  taken  through  the  streets?" 

"If  you  like  to  pay  for  it,  you  can  go  in  a  cab,"  the 
police-officer  replied. 

"I'll  go  with  you,  dear,"  Esther  said.  William 
plucked  her  by  the  sleeve.  "It  will  do  no  good.  Why 
should  you  go?" 


XL. 

The  magistrate  of  course  sent  the  case  for  trial,  and 
the  thirty  pounds  which  William  had  promised  to  give 
to  Esther  went  to  pay  for  the  defence.  There  seemed 
at  first  some  hope  that  the  prosecution  would  not  be 
able  to  prove  its  case,  but  fresh  evidence  connecting 
Sarah  with  the  abstraction  of  the  plate  was  forthcom- 
ing, and  in  the  end  it  was  thought  advisable  that  the 
plea  of  not  guilty  should  be  withdrawn.  The  efforts 
of  counsel  were  therefore  directed  towards  a  mitiga- 
tion of  sentence.  Counsel  called  Esther  and  William 
for  the  purpose  of  proving  the  excellent  character  that 
the  prisoner  had  hitherto  borne ;  cotmsel  spoke  of  the 
evil  influence  into  which  the  prisoner  had  fallen,  and 
urged  that  she  had  no  intention  of  actually  stealing  the 
plate.  Tempted  by  promises,  she  had  been  persuaded 
to  pledge  the  plate  in  order  to  back  a  horse  which  she 
had  been  told  was  certain  to  win.  If  that  horse  had 
won,  the  plate  would  have  been  redeemed  and  returned 
to  its  proper  place  in  the  owner's  house,  and  the  pris- 
oner would  have  been  able  to  marry.  Possibly  the 
marriage  on  which  the  prisoner  had  set  her  heart 
would  have  turned  out  more  unfortunate  for  the  pris- 
oner than  the  present  proceedings.  Counsel  had  not 
words  strong  enough  to  stigmatise  the  character  of  a 
man  who,  having  induced  a  girl  to  imperil  her  liberty 
for  his  own  vile  ends,  was  cowardly  enough  to  abandon 
her  in  the  hour  of  her  deepest  distress.  Counsel  drew 
attention  to  the  trusting  nature  of  the  prisoner,  who 

422 


ESTHER     WATERS  423 

had  not  only  pledged  her  employer's  plate  at  his  base 
instigation,  but  had  likewise  been  foolish  enough  to 
confide  the  pawn-ticket  to  his  keeping.  Such  was  the 
prisoner's  story,  and  he  submitted  that  it  bore  on  the 
face  of  it  the  stamp  of  truth.  A  very  sad  story,  but 
one  full  of  simple,  foolish,  trusting  humanity,  and, 
having  regard  to  the  excellent  character  the  prisoner 
had  borne,  counsel  hoped  that  his  lordship  would  see 
his  way  to  dealing  leniently  with  her. 

His  Lordship,  whose  gallantries  had  been  pro- 
longed over  half  a  century,  and  whose  betting  trans- 
actions were  matters  of  public  comment,  pursed  up 
his  ancient  lips  and  fixed  his  dead  glassy  eyes  on  the 
prisoner.  He  said  he  regretted  that  he  could  not  take 
the  same  view  of  the  prisoner's  character  as  learned 
counsel  had  done.  The  police  had  made  every  effort 
to  apprehend  the  man  Evans  who,  according  to  the 
prisoner's  story,  was  the  principal  culprit.  But  the 
efforts  of  the  police  had  been  unavailing;  they  had, 
however,  found  traces  of  the  man  Evans,  who 
undoubtedly  did  exist,  and  need  not  be  considered  to 
be  a  near  relative  of  our  friend  Mrs.  Harris.  And  the 
little  joke  provoked  some  amusement  in  the  court; 
learned  counsel  settled  their  robes  becomingly  and 
leant  forward  to  listen.  They  were  in  for  a  humorous 
speech,  and  the  prisoner  would  get  off  with  a  light 
sentence.  But  the  grim  smile  waxed  duller,  and  it 
was  clear  that  lordship  was  determined  to  make  the 
law  a  terror  to  evil-doers.  Lordship  drew  attention  to 
the  fact  that  during  the  course  of  their  investigations 
the  police  had  discovered  that  the  prisoner  had  been 
living  for  some  considerable  time  with  the  man 
Evans,  during  which  time  several  robberies  had  been 


424  ESTHER    WATERS 

effected.  There  was  no  evidence,  it  was  true,  to  con- 
nect the  prisoner  with  these  robberies.  The  prisoner 
had  left  the  man  Evans  and  had  obtained  a  situation 
in  the  house  of  her  present  employers.  When  the 
characters  she  had  received  from  her  former  employers 
were  being  examined  she  had  accounted  for  the  year 
she  had  spent  with  the  man  Evans  by  saying  that  she 
had  been  staying  with  the  Latches,  the  publicans  who 
had  given  evidence  in  her  favour.  It  had  also  come 
to  the  knowledge  of  the  police  that  the  man  Evans  used 
to  frequent  the  "King's  Head,"  that  was  the  house 
owned  by  the  Latches ;  it  was  probable  that  she  had 
made  there  the  acquaintance  of  the  man  Evans.  The 
prisoner  had  referred  her  employers  to  the  Latches, 
who  had  lent  their  sanction  to  the  falsehood  regarding 
the  year  she  was  supposed  to  have  spent  with  them, 
but  which  she  had  really  spent  in  cohabitation  with  a 
notorious  thief.  Here  lordship  indulged  in  severe 
remarks  against  those  who  enabled  not  wholly  irre- 
proachable characters  to  obtain  situations  by  false  pre- 
tences, a  very  common  habit,  and  one  attended  with 
great  danger  to  society,  one  which  society  would  do 
well  to  take  precautions  to  defend  itself  against. 

The  plate,  his  Lordship  remarked,  was  said  to  have 
been  pawned,  but  there  was  nothing  to  show  that  it 
had  been  pawned,  the  prisoner's  explanation  being 
that  she  had  given  the  pawn-ticket  to  the  man  Evans. 
She  could  not  tell  where  she  had  pawned  the  plate,  her 
tale  being  that  she  and  the  man  Evans  had  gone  down 
to  Whitechapel  together  and  pawned  it  in  the  Mile  End 
Road.  But  she  did  not  know  the  number  of  the  pawn- 
broker's, nor  could  she  give  any  indications  as  to  its 
whereabouts — beyond  the  mere  fact  that  it  was  in  the 


ESTHER     WATERS  425 

Mile  End  Road  she  could  say  nothing.  All  the  pawn- 
brokers in  the  Mile  End  Road  had  been  searched,  but 
no  plate  answering  to  the  description  furnished  by  the 
prosecution  could  be  found. 

Learned  counsel  had  endeavoured  to  show  that  it 
had  been  in  a  measure  unpremeditated,  that  it  was  the 
result  of  a  passing  but  irresistible  temptation. 
Learned  counsel  had  endeavoured  to  introduce  some 
element  of  romance  into  the  case ;  he  had  described  the 
theft  as  the  outcome  of  the  x^risoner's  desire  of  mar- 
riage, but  lordship  could  not  find  such  purity  of  motive 
in  the  prisoner's  crime.  There  was  nothing  to  show 
that  there  was  any  thought  of  marriage  in  the  pris- 
oner's mind;  the  crime  was  the  result,  not  of  any 
desire  of  marriage,  but  rather  the  result  of  vicious 
passion,  concubinage.  Regarding  the  plea  that  the 
crime  was  unpremeditated,  it  was  only  necessary  to 
point  out  that  it  had  been  committed  for  a  distinct 
purpose  and  had  been  carried  out  in  conjunction  with 
an  accomplished  thief. 

"There  is  now  only  one  more  point  which  I  wish  to 
refer  to,  and  that  is  the  plea  that  the  prisoner  did  not 
intend  to  steal  the  plate,  but  only  to  obtain  money 
upon  it  to  enable  her  and  the  partner  in  her  guilt  to 
back  a  horse  for  a  race  which  they  believed  to  be — " 
his  Lordship  was  about  to  say  a  certainty  for  him ;  he 
stopped  himself,  however,  in  time — "to  be,  to  be, 
which  they  believed  hina  to  be  capable  of  winning. 
The  race  in  question  is,  I  think,  called  the  Cesare-^ 
witch,  and  the  name  of  the  horse  (lordship  had  lost 
three  hundred  on  Ben  Jonson),  if  my  memory  serves 
me  right  (here  lordship  fumbled  amid  papers),  yes, 
the  name  is,   as  I  thought,   Ben   Jonson.      Now,   the 


426  ESTHER    WATERS 

learned  counsel  for  the  defence  suggested  that,  if 
the  horse  had  won,  the  plate  would  have  been 
redeemed  and  restored  to  its  proper  place  in  the 
pantry  cupboards.  This,  I  venture  to  point  out,  is  a 
mere  hypothesis.  The  money  might  have  been  again 
used  for  the  purpose  of  gambling.  I  confess  that  I  do 
not  see  why  we  should  condone  the  prisoner's  offence 
because  it  was  committed  for  the  sake  of  obtaining 
money  for  gambling  purposes.  Indeed,  it  seems  to 
me  a  reason  for  dealing  heavily  with  the  offence.  The 
vice  among  the  poorer  classes  is  largely  on  the 
increase,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  the  duty  of  all  in 
authority  to  condemn  rather  than  to  condone  the 
evil,  and  to  use  every  effort  to  stamp  it  out.  For  my 
part  I  fail  to  perceive  any  romantic  element  in  the 
vice  of  gambling.  It  springs  from  the  desire  to  obtain 
wealth  without  work,  in  other  words,  without  pay- 
ment ;  work,  whether  in  the  past  or  the  present,  is  the 
natural  payment  for  wealth,  and  any  wealth  that  is 
obtained  without  w^ork  is  in  a  measure  a  fraud  com- 
mitted upon  the  community.  Poverty,  despair,  idle- 
ness, and  every  other  vice  spring  from  gambling  as 
naturally,  and  in  the  same  profusion,  as  weeds  from 
barren  land.  Drink,  too,  is  gambling's  firmest  ally." 
At  this  moment  a  certain  dryness  in  his  Lordship's 
throat  reminded  him  of  the  pint  of  excellent  claret 
that  lordship  always  drank  with  his  lunch,  and  the 
thought  enabled  lordship  to  roll  out  some  excellent 
invective  against  the  evils  of  beer  and  spirits.  And 
lordship's  losses  on  the  horse  whose  name  he  could 
hardly  recall  helped  to  a  forcible  illustration  of  the 
theory  that  drink  and  gambling  mutually  uphold  and 
enforce  each  other.     When  the  news  that  Ben  Jonson 


BSTHBR    WATERS  427 

had  broken  down  at  the  bushes  came  in,  lordship  had 
drunk  a  magnum  of  champagne,  and  memory  of  this 
champagne  inspired  a  telling  description  of  the  sink- 
ing feeling  consequent  on  the  loss  of  a  wager,  and  the 
natural  inclination  of  a  man  to  turn  to  drink  to  coun- 
teract it.  Drink  and  gambling  are  growing  social 
evils ;  in  a  great  measure  they  are  circumstantial,  and 
only  require  absolute  legislation  to  stamp  them  out 
almost  entirely.  This  was  not  the  first  case  of  the 
kind  that  had  come  before  him ;  it  was  one  of  many, 
but  it  was  a  typical  case,  presenting  all  the  familiar 
features  of  the  vice  of  which  he  had  therefore  spoken 
at  unusual  length.  Such  cases  were  on  the  increase, 
and  if  they  continued  to  increase,  the  powers  of  the 
law  would  have  to  be  strengthened.  But  even  as  the 
law  stood  at  present,  betting-houses,  public-houses  in 
which  betting  was  carried  on,  were  illegal,  and  it  was 
the  duty  of  the  police  to  leave  no  means  untried  to 
unearth  the  offenders  and  bring  them  to  justice. 
Lordship  then  glanced  at  the  trembling  woman  in  the 
dock.  He  condemned  her  to  eighteen  months'  hard 
labour,  and  gathering  up  the  papers  on  the  desk, 
dismissed  her  for  ever  from  his  mind. 

The  court  adjourned  for  lunch,  and  Esther  and 
William  edged  their  way  out  of  the  crowd  of  lawyers 
and  their  clerks.  Neither  spoke  for  some  time. 
William  was  much  exercised  by  his  Lordship's  remarks 
on  betting  public-houses,  and  his  advice  that  the  police 
should  increase  their  vigilance  and  leave  no  means 
untried  to  uproot  that  which  was  the  curse  and  the 
ruin  of  the  lower  classes.  It  was  the  old  story,  one 
law  for  the  rich,  another  for  the  "poor?  William  did 
not  seek  to  probe  the  question  any  further,  this  exam- 


428  ESTHER     WATERS 

ination  seemed  to  him  to  have  exhausted  it ;  and  he 
remembered,  after  all  that  that  hypocritical  judge  had 
said,  how  difficult  it  would  be  to  escape  detection. 
When  he  was  caught  he  would  be  fined  a  hundred 
pounds,  and  probably  lose  his  licence.  What  would  he 
do  then?  He  did  not  confide  his  fears  to  Esther.  She 
had  promised  to  say  no  more  about  the  betting;  but 
she  had  not  changed  her  opinion.  She  was  one  of 
those  stubborn  ones  who  would  rather  die  than  admit 
they  were  wrong.  Then  he  wondered  what  she 
thought  of  his  Lordship's  speech.  Esther  was  think- 
ing of  the  thin  gruel  Sarah  would  have  to  eat,  the 
plank  bed  on  which  she  would  have  to  sleep,  and  the 
miserable  future  that  awaited  her  when  she  should  be 
released  from  gaol. 

It  was  a  bright  winter's  day;  the  City  folk  were 
walking  rapidly,  tightly  buttoned  up  in  top-coats,  and 
in  a  windy  sky  a  flock  of  pigeons  floated  on  straight- 
ened wings  above  the  telegraph  wires.  Fleet  Street 
was  full  of  journalists  going  to  luncheon-bars  and 
various  eating-houses.  Their  hurry  and  animation 
were  remarkable,  and  Esther  noticed  how  laggard 
was  William's  walk  by  comparison,  how  his  clothes 
hung  loose  about  him,  and  that  the  sharp  air  was  at 
work  on  his  lungs,  making  him  cough.  She  asked 
him  to  button  himself  up  more  closely. 

"Is  not  that  old  John's  wife?"  Esther  said, 

"Yes,  that's  her,"  said  William.  "She'd  have  seen 
us  if  that  cove  hadn't  given  her  the  shilling.  .  .  . 
Lord,  I  didn't  think  they  was  as  badly  off  as  that.  Did 
you  ever  see  such  rags?  and  that  thick  leg  wrapped  up 
in  that  awful  stocking." 

The  morning  had  been  full  of  sadness,   and   Mrs. 


ESTHER     WATERS  429 

Randal's  wandering  rags  had  seemed  to  Esther  like  a 
foreboding.  She  grew  frightened,  as  the  cattle  do  in 
the  fields  when  the  sky  darkens  and  the  storm  draws 
near.  She  suddenly  remembered  Mrs.  Barfield,  and 
she  heard  her  telling  her  of  the  tmhappiness  that  she 
had  seen  come  from  betting.  Where  was  Mrs.  Bar- 
field?  Should  she  ever  see  her  again?  Mr.  Barfield 
was  dead,  Miss  May  was  forced  to  live  abroad  for  the 
sake  of  her  health ;  all  that  time  of  long  ago  was  over 
and  done  with.  Some  words  that  Mrs.  Barfield  had 
said  came  back  to  her ;  she  had  never  quite  uaderstood 
them,  but  she  had  never  quite  forgotten  them ;  they 
seemed  to  chime  through  her  life.  "My  girl,"  Mrs. 
Barfield  had  said,/ 'I  am  more  than  twenty  years  older 
than  you,  and  I  assure  you  that  time  has  passed  like  a 
little  dream ;  life  is  nothing.  We  must  think  of  what 
comes  after." 

"Cheer  up,  old  girl;  eighteen  months  is  a  long 
while,  but  it  ain't  a  lifetime.  She'll  get  through  it  all 
right;  and  when  she  comes  out  we'll  try  to  see  what 
we  can  do  for  her. ' ' 

William's  voice  startled  Esther  from  the  depth  of 
her  dream;  she  looked  at  him  vaguely,  and  he  saw 
that  she  had  been  thinking  of  something  different 
from  what  he  had  suspected.  "I  thought  it  was  on 
account  of  Sarah  that  you  was  looking  so  sad. ' ' 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  was  not  thinking  of  Sarah." 

Then,  taking  it  for  granted  that  she  was  thinking  of 
the  wickedness  of  betting,  his  face  darkened.  It  was 
aggravating  to  have  a  wife  who  was  always  troubling 
about  things  that  couldn't  be  helped.  The  first  per- 
son they  saw  on  entering  the  bar  was  old  John;  and 
he  sat  in  the  comer  of  the  bar  on  a  high  stool,  his  grey, 


43©  ESTHER    WATERS 

death-like  face  sunk  in  the  old  unstarched  shirt  collar. 
The  thin,  wrinkled  throat  was  hid  with  the  remains  of 
a  cravat ;  it  was  passed  twice  round,  and  tied  accord- 
ing to  the  fashion  of  fifty  years  ago.  His  boots  were 
broken ;  the  trousers,  a  grey,  dirty  brown,  were  torn  as 
high  up  as  the  ankle ;  they  had  been  mended  and  the 
patches  hardly  held  together;  the  frock  coat,  green 
with  age,  with  huge  flaps  over  the  pockets,  frayed  and 
torn,  and  many  sizes  too  large,  hung  upon  his  starve- 
ling body.  He  seemed  very  feeble,  and  there  was 
neither  light  nor  expression  in  his  glassy,  watery 
eyes. 

"Eighteen  months;  a  devil  of  a  stiff  sentence  for  a 
first  offence, ' '  said  William. 

"I  just  dropped  in.  Charles  said  you'd  sure  to  be 
back.     You're  later  than  I  expected." 

"We  stopped  to  have  a  bit  of  lunch.  But  you  heard 
what  I  said.     She  got  eighteen  months.** 

"Who  got  eighteen  months?" 

"Sarah." 

"Ah,  Sarah.  She  was  tried  to-day.  So  she  got 
eighteen  months. '  * 

"What's  the  matter?  Wake  up;  you're  half  asleep. 
What  will  you  have  to  drink?" 

"A  glass  of  milk,  if  you've  got  such  a  thing.** 

"Glass  of  milk!  What  is  it,  old  man — not  feeling 
well?" 

"Not  very  well.     The  fact  is,  I'm  starving." 

"Starving!  .  .  .  Then  come  into  the  parlour  and 
have  something  to  eat.  Why  didn't  you  say  so 
before?" 

"I  didn't  like  to.** 

He  led  the  old  chap  into  the  parlour  and  gave  him  a 


ESTHER    WATERS  43^ 

chair.  "Didn't  like  to  tell  me  that  you  was  as  hard  up 
as  all  that?  What  do  you  mean?  You  didn't  use  to 
mind  coming  round  for  half  a  quid. 

"That  was  to  back  a  horse;  but  I  didn't  like  coming 
to  ask  for  food — excuse  me,  I'm  too  weak  to  speak 
much." 

When  old  John  had  eaten,  William  asked  how  it  was 
that  things  had  gone  so  badly  with  him.  ^^ 

"I've  had  terrible  bad  luck  lately,  can't  get  on  a^ 
winner  nohow.  I  have  backed  'orses  that  'as  been 
tried  to  win  with  two  stone  more  on  their  backs  than 
they  had  to  carry,  but  just  because  I  was  on  them  they 
didn't  win.  I  don't  know  how  many  half-crowns  I've 
had  on  first  favourites.  Then  I  tried  the  second 
favourites,  but  they  gave  way  to  outsiders  or  the 
first  favourites  when  I  took  to  backing  them.  Stack's 
tips  and  Ketley's  omens  was  all  the  same  as  far  as  I 
was  concerned.  It's  a  poor  business  when  you're  out 
of  luck." 

"It  is  giving  way  to  fancy  that  does  for  the  back- 
ers. The  bookmaker's  advantage  is  that  he  bets  on 
principle  and  not  on  fancy." 

Old  John  told  how  unlucky  he  had  been  in  business. 
He  had  been  dismissed  from  his  employment  in  the 
restaurant,  not  from  any  fault  of  his  own,  he  had  done 
his  work  well.  "But  they  don't  like  old  waiters; 
there's  always  a  lot  of  young  Germans  about,  and 
customers  said  I  smelt  bad.  I  suppose  it  was  my 
clothes  and  want  of  convenience  at  home  for  keeping 
one's  self  tidy.  We've  been  so  hard  up  to  pay  the 
three  and  sixpence  rent  which  we've  owed,  that  the 
black  coat  and  waistkit  had  to  go  to  the  pawnshop,  so 
even  if  I  did  meet  with  a  job  in  the  Exhibition  places, 


432  ESTHER     WATERS 

where  they  ain't  so  particular  about  yer  age,  I  should 
not  be  able  to  take  it.  It's  terrible  to  think  that  I 
should  have  to  come  to  this  and  after  having  worked 
round  the  table  this  forty  years,  fifty  pounds  a  year  and 
all  found,  and  accustomed  always  to  a  big  footman 
and  page-boy  under  me.  But  there's  plenty  more  like 
me.  It's  a  poor  game.  You're  well  out  of  it.  I  sup- 
pose the  end  of  it  will  be  the  work'us.  I'm  pretty 
well  wore  out,  and " 

The  old  man's  voice  died  away.  He  made  no 
allusion  to  his  wife.  His  dislike  to  speak  of  her  was 
part  and  parcel  of  his  dislike  to  speak  of  his  private 
affairs.  The  conversation  then  turned  on  Sarah ;  the 
severity  of  the  sentence  was  alluded  to,  and  William 
spoke  of  how  the  judge's  remarks  would  put  the  police 
on  the  w^atch,  and  how  difficult  it  would  be  to  con- 
tinue his  betting  business  without  being  found  out. 

"There's  no  doubt  that  it  is  most  unfortunate," 
said  old  John.  ''The  only  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  be 
very  particular  about  yer  introductions,  and  to  refuse 
to  bet  with  all  who  haven't  been  properly  introduced. " 

"Or  to  give  up  betting  altogether,"  said  Esther. 

"Give  up  betting  altogether!"  William  answered,  his 
face  flushed,  and  he  gradually  worked  himself  into  a 
passion.  "I  give  you  a  good  'ome,  don't  I?  You 
want  for  nothing,  do  yer?  Well,  that  being  so,  I  think 
you  might  keep  your  nose  out  of  your  husband's  busi- 
ness. There's  plenty  of  prayer-meetings  where  you 
can  go  preaching  if  you  like. " 

William  would  have  said  a  good  deal  more,  but  his 
anger  brought  on  a  fit  of  coughing.  Esther  looked 
at  him  contemptuously,  and  without  answering  she 
walked  into  the  bar. 


ESTHER    WATERS  433 

"That's  a  bad  cough  of  yours,"  said  old  John. 

"Yes,"  said  William,  and  he  drank  a  little  water  to 
pass  it  off.  "I  must  see  the  doctor  about  it.  It  makes 
one  that  irritable.  The  missis  is  in  a  pretty  temper, 
ain't  she?" 

Old  John  did  not  reply;  it  was  not  his  habit  to 
notice  domestic  differences  of  opinion,  especially  those 
in  which  women  had  a  share — queer  cattle  that  he 
knew  nothing  about.  The  men  talked  for  a  long  time 
regarding  the  danger  the  judge's  remarks  had  brought 
the  house  into;  and  they  considered  all  the  circum- 
stances of  the  case.  Allusion  was  made  to  the 
inj  nstice  of  the  law,  which  allowed  the  rich  and  for-  />> 
bade  the  poor  to  bet;  anecdotes  were  related,  but 
nothing  they  said  threw  new  light  on  the  matter  in 
hand,  and  when  old  John  rose  to  go  William  summed 
up  the  situation  in  these  few  words — 

"Bet  I  must,  if  I'm  to  get  my  living.  The  only 
thing  I  can  do  is  to  be  careful  not  to  bet  with 
strangers. ' ' 

"I  don't  see  how  they  can  do  nothing  to  you  if  yer 
makes  that  yer  principle  and  sticks  to  it,"  said  old 
John,  and  he  put  on  the  huge-rimmed,  greasy  hat, 
three  sizes  too  large  for  him,  looking  in  his  square-cut 
tattered  frock-coat  as  queer  a  specimen  of  humanity  as 
you  would  be  likely  to  meet  with  in  a  day's  walk.  "If 
you  makes  that  yer  principle  and  sticks  to  it,"  thought 
William. 

But  practice  and  principle  are  never  reduced  to 
perfect  agreement.  One  is  always  marauding  the 
other's  territor}^;  nevertheless  for  several  months  prin- 
ciple distinctly  held  the  upper  hand ;  William  refused 
over  and  over  again  to  make  bets  with  comparative 


434  ESTHER     WATERS 

Strangers,  but  the  day  came  when  his  principle 
relaxed,  and  he  took  the  money  of  a  man  whom  he 
thought  was  all  right.  It  was  done  on  the  impulse  of 
the  moment,  but  the  two  half-crowns  wrapped  up  in 
paper,  with  the  name  of  the  horse  written  on  the 
paper,  had  hardly  gone  into  the  drawer  than  he  felt 
that  he  had  done  wrong.  He  couldn't  tell  why,  but 
the  feeling  came  across  him  that  he  had  done  wrong  in 
taking  the  man's  money — a  tall,  clean-shaven  man 
dressed  in  broadcloth.  It  was  too  late  to  draw  back. 
The  man  had  finished  his  beer  and  had  left  the  bar, 
which  in  itself  was  suspicious. 
^'  Three  days  afterwards,  between  twelve  and  one, 
y\  just  the  busiest  time,  when  the  bar  was  full  of 
people,  there  came  a  cry  of  "Police!"  An  effort  was 
made  to  hide  the  betting  plant ;  a  rush  was  made  for 
^  the  doors.  It  was  all  too  late;  the  sergeant  and  a  con- 
stable ordered  that  no  one  was  to  leave  the  house; 
other  police  were  outside.  The  names  and  addresses 
of  all  present  were  taken  down;  search  was  made,  and 
the  packets  of  money  and  the  betting  books  were  dis- 
covered. Then  they  all  had  to  go  to  Marlborough 
Street. 


XLI. 

Next  day  the  following  account  was  given  in  most  of 
the  daily  papers: — *' Raid  on  abetting  man  in  the  West 
End.      William    Latch,    35,   landlord    of    the    'King's 
Head, '  Dean  Street,  Soho,  was  charged  that  he,  being 
a  licensed  person,  did  keep  and  use  his  public-house 
for   the    purpose   of    betting   with   persons   resorting 
thereto.     Thomas  William,  35,  billiard  marker,   Gaul- 
den   Street,    Battersea;     Arthur    Henry    Parsons,    25, 
waiter,   Northumberland  Street,   Marylebone;    Joseph 
Stack,  52,  gentleman;  Harold  Journeyman,  45,  gentle- 
man,    High    Street,     Norwood;     Philip    Hutchinson, 
grocer,   Bisey  Road,   Fulham;    William  Tann,   piano- 
tuner,  Standard  Street,  Soho;  Charles  Ketley,  butter- 
man.  Green  Street,  Soho;    John  Randal,  Frith  Street, 
Soho;    Charles  Muller,   44,   tailor,    Marylebone   Lane; 
Arthur   Bartram,    stationer.    East    Street    Buildings; 
William  Burton,   harness  maker,   Blue    Lion    Street, 
Bond   Street,   were    charged  with   using  the  'King's 
Head'    for  the   purpose  of    betting.       Evidence    was 
given  by  the  police  regarding  the  room  upstairs,  where 
a  good  deal  of  drinking  went  on  after  hours.     There 
had  been  cases  of  disorder,  and  the  magistrate  unfor- 
tunately remembered  that    a    servant-girl,   who    had 
pledged  her  master's  plate  to  obtain  money  to  back  a 
horse,  had  been  arrested  in  the  'King's  Head.'     Tak- 
ing these  facts  into  consideration,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  could  not  do  less  than  inflict  a  fine  of  ;£ioo.     The 

435 


436  ESTHER     WATERS 

men  who  were  found  in  Latch's  house  he  ordered  to 
be  bound  over." 

Who  had  first  given  information?  That  was  the 
question.  Old  John  sat  smoking  in  his  corner. 
Journeyman  leaned  against  the  yellow-painted  par- 
tition, his  legs  thrust  out.  Stack  stood  square,  his 
dark,  crimson-tinted  skin  contrasting  with  sallow- 
faced   little    Ketley. 

"Don't  the  omens  throw  no  light  on  this  'eie 
matter?"  said  Journeyman. 

Ketley  started  from  his  reverie. 

"Ah,"  said  William,  "if  I  only  knew  who  the 
b was. ' ' 

"Ain't  you  got  no  idea  of  any  sort?"  said  Stack. 

"There  was  a  Salvation  chap  who  came  in  some 
months  ago  and  told  my  wife  that  the  betting  was  cor- 
rupting the  neighbourhood.  That  it  would  have  to  be 
put  a  stop  to.     It  may  'ave  been  'e. " 

"You  don't  ask  no  one  to  bet  with  you.  They  does 
as  they  like." 

"Does  as  they  like!  No  one  does  that  nowadays. 
There's  a  temperance  party,  a  purity  party,  and  a 
hanti-gambling  party,  and  what  they  is  working  for  is 
just  to  stop  folk  from  doing  as  they  like." 

"That's  it,"  said  Journeyman. 

Stack  raised  his  glass  to  his  lips  and  said,  "Here's 
luck." 

"There's  not  much  of  that  about,"  said  William. 
"We  seem  to  be  losing  all  round.  I'd  like  to  know 
where  the  money  goes.  I  think  it  is  the  *ouse;  it's 
gone  unlucky,  and  I'm  thinking  of  clearing  out." 

"We  may  live  in  a  'ouse  a  long  while  before  we 
find  what  its  luck  really  is,"  said  Ketley.     "I've  been 


ESTHER    WATERS  437 

in  my  old  'ouse  these  twenty  years,  and  it  ain't  noth- 
ing like  what  I  thought  it." 

' ' You  are  that  superstitious, ' '  said  Journeyman.  "If 
there  was  anything  the  matter  with  the  'ouse  you'd 've 
know'd  it  before  now." 

"Ain't  you  doing  the  trade  you  was?"  said  Stack. 

"No,  my  butter  and  egg  trade  have  fallen  dread- 
ful lately." 

The  conversation  paused.  It  was  Stack  who  broke 
the  silence. 

"Do  you  intend  to  do  no  more  betting  'ere?"  he 
asked. 

"What,  after  being  fined  ;^ioo?  You  'eard  the 
way  he  went  on  about  Sarah,  and  all  on  account  of  her 
being  took  here.  I  think  he  might  have  left  Sarah 
out." 

"It  warn't  for  betting  she  took  the  plate,"  said 
Journeyman;  "it  was  'cause  her  chap  said  if  she  did 
he'd  marry  her." 

"I  wonder  you  ever  left  the  course,"  said  Stack. 

"It  was  on  account  of  my  'ealth.  I  caught  a  dread- 
ful cold  at  Kempton,  standing  about  in  tl^e  mud.  I've 
never  quite  got  over  that  cold. ' ' 

"I  remember,"  said  Ketley;  "you  couldn't  speak 
above  a  whisper  for  two  months." 

"Two  months!  more  like  three." 

"Fourteen  weeks,"  said  Esther. 

She  was  in  favour  of  disposing  of  the  house  and 
going  to  live  in  the  country  But  it  was  soon  found 
that  the  conviction  for  keeping  a  betting-house  had 
spoiled  their  chance  of  an  advantageous  sale.  If, 
however,  the  licence  were  renewed  next  year,  and  the 
business  did  not  in  the  meantime  decline,  they  would 


43^  ESTHER    WATERS 

be  in  a  position  to  obtain  better  terms.  So  all  their 
energies  should  be  devoted  to  the  improvement  of 
their  business.  Esther  engaged  another  servant,  and 
she  provided  the  best  meat  and  vegetables  that  money- 
could  buy;  William  ordered  beer  and  spirits  of  a 
quality  that  could  be  procured  nowhere  else  in  the 
neighbourhood ;  but  all  to  no  purpose.  As  soon  as  it 
became  known  that  it  was  no  longer  possible  to  pass 
half  a  crown  or  a  shilling  w^rapped  up  in  a  piece  of 
paper  across  the  bar,  their  custom  began  to  decline. 

At  last  William  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  he 
obtained  his  wife's  permission  to  once  more  begin 
book-making  on  the  course.  His  health  had  begun  to 
improve  with  the  spring  weather,  and  there  was  no 
use  keeping  him  at  home  eating  his  heart  out  with 
vexation  because  the}-  were  doing  no  business.  So 
did  Esther  reason,  and  it  reminded  her  of  old  times 
when  he  came  back  with  his  race-glasses  slung  round 
his  shoulder.  "Favourites  all  beaten  to-day;  what 
have  you  got  for  me  to  eat,  old  girl?"  Esther  forgot 
her  dislike  of  racing  in  the  joy  of  seeing  her  husband 
happy,  if  he'd  only  pick  up  a  bit  of  flesh;  but  he 
seemed  to  get  thinner  and  thinner,  and  his  food  didn't 
seem  to  do  him  any  good. 

One  day  he  came  home  complaining  that  the  ring 
was  six  inches  of  soft  mud ;  he  was  wet  to  the  skin, 
and  he  sat  shivering  the  whole  evening,  wath  the 
sensation  of  a  long  illness  upon  him.  He  was  laid  up 
for  several  weeks,  and  his  voice  seemed  as  if  it  \vould 
never  return  to  him  again.  There  was  little  or  no 
occupation  for  him  in  the  bar;  and  instead  of  laying  he 
began  to  take  the  odds.  He  backed  a  few  winners,  it 
is  true ;  but  they  could  not  rely  on  that.     Most  of  their 


ESTHER    WATERS  439 

trade  had  slipped  from  them,  so  it  did  not  much 
matter  to  them  if  they  were  found  out.  He  might  as 
well  be  hung  for  an  old  sheep  as  a  lamb,  and  surrep- 
titiously at  first,  and  then  more  openly,  he  began  to 
take  money  across  the  bar,  and  with  every  shilling  he 
took  for  a  bet  another  shilling  was  spent  in  drink. 
Custom  came  back  in  ripples,  and  then  in  stronger 
waver,  until  once  again  the  bar  of  the  "King's  Head" 
was  full  to  overflowing.  Another  conviction  meant 
ruin,  but  they  must  risk  it,  so  said  William;  and 
Esther,  like  a  good  wife,  acquiesced  in  her  husband's 
decision.  But  he  took  money  only  from  those  whom 
he  was  quite  sure  of.  He  required  an  introduction, 
and  was  careful  to  make  inquiries  concerning  every 
new  backer.  "In  this  way,"  he  said  to  Ketley,  "so 
long  as  one  is  content  to  bet  on  a  small  scale,  I  think 
it  can  be  kept  dark ;  but  if  you  try  to  extend  your  con- 
nection you're  bound  to  come  across  a  wrong  'un 
sooner  or  later.  It  was  that  room  upstairs  that  did  for 
me." 

"I  never  did  think  much  of  that  room  upstairs,'^- 
said  Ketley.  "There  was  a  something  about  it  that  I 
didn't  like.  Be  sure  you  never  bet  in  that  jug  and 
bottle  bar,  whatever  you  do.  There's  just  the  same 
look  there  as  in  the  room  upstairs.  Haven't  you 
noticed  it?" 

"Can't  say  I  'ave,  nor  am  I  sure  that  I  know  exactly 
what  you  mean." 

"If  you  don't  see  it,  you,  don't  see  it;  but  it's  plain 
enough  to  me,  and  don't  you  bet  with  nobody  standing 
in  that  bar.     I  wouldn't  go  in  there  for  a  sovereign." 

William  laughed.  He  thought  at  first  that  Ketley 
was  joking,  but  he  soon  saw  that  Ketley  regarded  the 


440  ESTHER    WATERS 

jug  and  bottle  entrance  with  real  suspicion.  When 
pressed  to  explain,  he  told  Journeyman  that  it  wasn't 
that  he  was  afraid  of  the  place,  he  merely  didn't  like  it. 
"There's  some  places  that  you  likes  better  than  others, 
ain't  they?"  Journeyman  was  obliged  to  confess 
that  there  were. 

"Well,  then,  that's  one  of  the  places  I  don't  like. 
Don't  you  hear  a  voice  talking  there,  a  soft,  low  voice, 
with  a  bit  of  a  jeer  in  it?" 

On  another  occasion  he  shaded  his  eyes  and  peered 
curiously  into  the  left-hand  corner. 

"What  are  you  looking  at?"  asked  Journeyman. 

"At  nothing  that  you  can  see,"  Ketley  answered; 
and  he  drank  his  whisky  as  if  lost  in  consideration  of 
grave  and  difficult  things.  A  few  weeks  later  they 
noticed  that  he  always  got  as  far  from  the  jug  and 
bottle  entrance  as  possible,  and  he  was  afflicted  with  a 
long  story  concerning  a  danger  that  awaited  him. 
"He's  waiting;  but  nothing  will  happen  if  I  don't  go 
in  there.  He  can't  follow  me;  he  is  waiting  forme 
to  go  to  him. ' ' 

"Then  keep  out  of  his  way,"  said  Journeyman. 
"You  might  ask  your  bloody  friend  if  he  can  tell  us 
anything  about  the  Leger. ' ' 

"I'm  trying  to  keep  out  of  his  way,  but  he's  always 
watching  and  a-beckoning  of  me. " 

"Can  you  see  him  now?"  asked  Stack. 

"Yes,"  said  Ketley;  "he's  a-sitting  there,  and  he 
seems  to  say  that  if  I  don't  come  to  him  worse  will 
happen. ' ' 

"Don't  say  nothing  to  him,"  William  whispered  to 
Journeyman.  "I  don't  think  he's  quite  right  in  'is 
'eadj  he's  been  losing  a  lot  lately." 


ESTHER    WATERS  441 

One  day  Journeyman  was  surprised  to  see  Ketley 

sitting  quite  composedly  in  the  jug  and  bottle  bar, 

"He  got  me  at  last;  I  had  to  go,  the  whispering  got 
so  loud  in  my  head  as  I  was  a-coming  down  the  street. 
I  tried  to  get  out  into  the  middle  of  the  street,  but 
a  drunken  chap  pushed  me  across  the  pavement, 
and  he  was  at  the  door  waiting,  and  he  said,  'Now, 
you'd  better  come  in;  you  know  what  will  happen  if 
you  don't.'  " 

"Don't  talk  rot,  old  pal;  come  round  and  have  a 
drink  with  us." 

"I  can't  just  at  present — I  may  later  on." 

"What  do  he  mean?"  said  Stack. 

"Lord,  I  don't  know,"  said  Journeyman.  "It's  only 
his  wandering  talk." 

They  tried  to  discuss  the  chances  of  the  various 
horses  they  were  interested  in,  but  they  could  not 
detach  their  thoughts  from  Ketley,  and  their  eyes 
went  back  to  the  queer  little  sallow-faced  man  who  sat 
on  a  high  stool  in  the  adjoining  bar  paring  his  nails. 

They  felt  something  was  going  to  happen,  and  before 
they  could  say  the  word  he  had  plunged  the  knife  deep 
into  his  neck,  and  had  fallen  heavily  on  the  floor. 
William  vaulted  over  the  counter.  As  he  did  so  he 
felt  something  break  in  his  throat,  and  when  Stack  and 
Journeyman  came  to  his  assistance  he  was  almost  as 
white  as  the  corpse  at  his  feet.  Blood  flowed  from  his 
mouth  and  from  Ketley's  neck  in  a  deep  stream  that 
swelled  into  a  great  pool  and  thickened  on  the  sawdust. 

"It  was  jumping  over  that  bar,"  William  replied- 
faintly. 

"I'll  see  to  my  husband,"  said  Esther. 

A  rush  of  blood  cut  short  his  words,  and,  leaning  on 


44«  ESTHER    WATERS 

his  wife,  he  walked  feebly  round  into  the  back  parlour. 
Esther  rang  the  bell  violently. 

"Go  round  at  once  to  Doctor  Green,"  she  said;  *'and 
If  he  isn't  in  inquire  which  is  the  nearest.  Don't  come 
back  without  a  doctor. ' ' 

William  had  broken  a  small  blood-vessel,  and  the 
doctor  said  he  would  have  to  be  very  careful  for  a  long 
time.  It  was  likely  to  prove  a  long  case.  But  Ketley 
had  severed  the  jugular  at  one  swift,  keen  stroke,  and 
had  died  almost  instantly.  Of  course  there  was  an 
inquest,  and  the  coroner  asked  many  questions  regard- 
ing the  habits  of  the  deceased.  Mrs.  Ketley  was  one 
of  the  witnesses  called,. and  she  deposed  that  he  had 
lost  a  great  deal  of  money  lately  in  betting,  and  that 
he  went  to  the  "King's  Head"  for  the  purpose  of  bet- 
ting. The  police  deposed  that  the  landlord  of  the 
"King's  Head"  had  been  fined  a  hundred  pounds  for 
keeping  a  betting-house,  and  the  foreman  of  the  jury 
remarked  that  betting-houses  were  the  ruin  of  the 
poorer  classes,  and  that  they  ought  to  be  put  a  stop  to. 
The  coroner  added  that  such  places  as  the  "King's 
Head"  should  not  be  licensed.  That  was  the  simplest 
and  most  effectual  way  of  dealing  with  the  nuisance. 

"There  never  was  no  luck  about  this  house,"  said 
William,  "and  what  there  was  has  left  us;  in  three 
months'  time  we  shall  be  turned  out  of  it  neck  and 
crop.  Another  conviction  would  mean  a  fine  of  a 
couple  of  hundred,  or  most  like  three  months,  and  that 
would  just  about  be  the  end  of  me." 

"They'll  never  license  us  again,"  said  Esther,  "and 
the  boy  at  school  and  doing  so  well. ' ' 

"I'm  sorry,  Esther,  to  have  brought  this  trouble  on 
you.     We  must  do  the  best  we  can,  get  the  best  price 


ESTHER     WATERS  .443 

we  can  for  the  'ouse.  I  may  be  lucky  enough  to  back 
a  few  winners.  That's  all  there  is  to  be  said — the 
'ouse  was  always  an  unlucky  one.  I  hate  the  place, 
and  shall  be  glad  to  get  out  of  it." 

Esther  sighed.  She  didn't  like  to  hear  the  house 
spoken  ill  of,  and  after  so  many  years  it  did  seem  a 
shame. 


XLII. 

Esther  kept  William  within  doors  during  the  wintei 
months.  If  his  health  did  not  improve  it  got  no  worse, 
and  she  had  begun  to  hope  that  the  breakage  of  the 
blood-vessel  did  not  mean  lung  disease.  But  the  harsh 
winds  of  spring  did  not  suit  him,  and  there  was  busi- 
ness with  his  lawyer  to  which  he  was  obliged  to  attend. 
A  determined  set  was  going  to  be  made  against  the 
renewal  of  his  licence,  and  he  was  determined  to  defeat 
his  opponents.  Counsel  was  instructed,  and  a  great 
deal  of  money  was  spent  on  the  case.  But  the  licence 
was  nevertheless  refused,  and  the  north-east  wind  did 
not  cease  to  rattle;  it  seemed  resolved  on  William's 
death,  and  with  a  sick  husband  on  her  hands,  and  all 
the  money  they  had  invested  in  the  house  irreparably 
lost,  Esther  began  to  make  preparations  for  moving. 

William  had  proved  a  kind  husband,  and  in  the  seven 
years  she  had  spent  in  the  "King's  Head"  there  had 
been  some  enjoyment  of  life.  She  couldn't  say  that 
she  had  been  unhappy.  She  had  always  disapproved 
of  the  betting.  They  had  tried  to  do  without  it. 
There  was  a  great  deal  in  life  which  one  couldn't 
approve  of.  But  Ketley  had  never  been  very  right  in 
his  head,  and  Sarah's  misfortune  had  had  very  little  to 
do  with  the  "King's  Head."  They  had  all  tried  to 
keep  her  from  that  man ;  it  was  her  own  fault.  There 
were  worse  places  than  the  "King's  Head."  It  wasn't 
for  her  to  abuse  it.  She  had  lived  there  seven  years; 
she  had  seen  her  boy  growing  up — he  was  almost  a 


ESTHER    WATERS  445 

young  man  now,  and  had  had  the  best  education.  That 
much  good  the  "King's  Head"  had  done.  But  perhaps 
it  was  no  longer  suited  to  William's  health.  The  bet- 
ting, she  was  tired  thinking  about  that ;  and  that  con- 
stant nipping,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  keep  from 
it  with  every  one  asking  him  to  drink  with  them.  A 
look  of  fear  and  distress  passed  across  her  face,  and  she 
stopped  for  a  moment.   .  .   . 

She  was  rolling  up  a  pair  of  curtains.  She  did  not 
know  how  they  were  to  live,  that  was  the  worst  of  it. 
If  they  only  had  back  the  money  they  had  sunk  in  the 
house  she  would  not  so  much  mind.  That  was  what 
was  so  hard  to  bear;  all  that  money  lost,  just  as  if  they 
had  thrown  it  into  the  river.  Seven  years  of  hard 
work — for  she  had  worked  hard — and  nothing  to  show 
for  it.  If  she  had  been  doing  the  grand  lady  all  the 
time  it  would  have  been  no  worse.  Horses  had  won 
and  horses  had  lost — a  great  deal  of  trouble  and  fuss 
and  nothing  to  show  for  it.  That  was  what  stuck  in 
her  throat.  Nothing  to  show  for  it.  She  looked 
round  the  dismantled  walls,  and  descended  the  vacant 
staircase.  She  would  never  serve  another  pint  of  beer 
in  that  bar.  What  a  strong,  big  fellow  he  was  when 
she  first  went  to  live  with  him !  He  was  sadly  changed. 
Would  she  ever  see  him  strong  and  well  again?  She 
remembered  he  had  told  her  that  he  was  worth  nearly 
^3,000.  She  hadn't  brought  him  luck.  He  wasn't 
worth  anything  like  that  to-day. 

"How  much  have  we  in  the  bank,  dear?" 
"A  bit  over  six  hundred  pounds.     I  was  reckoning 
of  it  up  yesterday.     But  w^hat  do  you  want  to  know 
for?     To  remind  me  that  I've  been  losing.     Well,   I 
have  been  losing.     I  hope  you're  satisfied." 


446  ESTHER    WATERS 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  such  a  thing." 

*'Yes,  you  was,  there's  no  use  saying  you  wasn't.  It 
ain't  my  fault  if  the  'orses  don't  win;  I  do  the  best  I 
can." 

She  did  not  answer  him.  Then  he  said,  "It's  m.y 
'ealth  that  makes  me  irritable,  dear;  you  aren't  angry, 
are  you?" 

"No,  dear,  I  know  you  don't  mean  it,  and  I  don't 
pa}'-  no  attention  to  it. ' '  She  spoke  so  gently  that  he 
looked  at  her  surprised,  for  he  remembered  her  quick 
temper,  and  he  said,  "You're  the  best  wife  a  man  ever 
had." 

"No,  I'm  not.  Bill,  but  I  tries  to  do  my  best." 

The  spring  was  the  harshest  ever  known,  and  his 
cough  grew  worse  and  the  blood-spitting  returned. 
Esther  grew  seriously  alarmed.  Their  doctor  spoke  of 
Brompton  Hospital,  and  she  insisted  on  his  going  there 
to  b'  examined.  William  would  not  have  her  come 
with  him ;  and  she  did  not  press  the  point,  fearing  to 
irritate  him,  but  sat  at  home  waiting  anxiously  for  him 
to  return,  hoping  against  hope,  for  their  doctor  had 
told  her  that  he  feared  very  long  trouble.  And  she 
could  tell  from  his  face  and  manner  that  he  had  bad 
news  for  her.  All  her  strength  left  her,  but  she  con- 
quered her  weakness  and  said — 

"Now,  tell  me  what  they  said.  I've  a  right  to  know ; 
I  want  to  know. ' ' 

"They  said  it  was  consumption.*' 

"Oh,  did  they  say  that?" 

"Yes,  but  that  don't  mean  that  I'm  going  to  die. 
They  said  they  hoped  they  could  patch  me  up ;  people 
often  live  for  years  with  only  half  a  lung,  and  it  is 
only  the  left  one  that's  gone." 


ESTHER     WATERS  447 

He  coughed  slightly  and  wiped  the  blood  from  his 
lips.     Esther  was  quite  overcome. 

"Now,  don't  look  like  that,"  he  said,  "or  I  shall 
fancy  I'm  going  to  die  to-morrow." 

"They  said  they  thought  that  they  could  patch 
you  up?" 

"Yes;  they  said  I  might  go  on  a  long  while  yet,  but 
that  I  would  never  be  the  man  I  was." 

This  was  so  obvious  that  she  could  not  check  a  look 
of  pity. 

"If  you're  going  to  look  at  me  like  that  I'd  sooner 
go  into  the  hospital  at  once.  It  ain't  the  cheerfulest 
of  places,  but  it  will  be  better  than  here. ' ' 

"I'm  sorry  it  was  consumption.  But  if  they  said 
they  could  patch  you  up,  it  will  be  all  right.  It  was  a 
great  deal  for  them  to  say." 

Her  duty  was  to  overcome  her  grief  and  speak  as  if 
the  doctors  had  told  him  that  there  was  nothing  the 
matter  that  a  little  careful  nursing  would  fail  to  put 
right.  William  had  faith  in  the  warm  weather,  and 
she  resolved  to  put  her  trust  in  it.  It  was  hard  to  see 
him  wasting  away  before  her  eyes  and  keep  cheerful 
looks  in  her  face  and  an  accent  of  cheerfulness  in  her 
voice.  The  sunshine  which  had  come  at  last  seemed 
to  suck  up  all  the  life  that  was  in  him ;  he  grew  paler, 
and  withered  like  a  plant.  Then  ill-luck  seemed  to 
have  joined  in  the  hunt;  he  could  not  "touch"  a  win- 
ner, and  their  fortune  drained  away  with  his  life. 
Favourites  and  outsiders,  it  mattered  not ;  whatever  he 
backed  lost;  and  Esther  dreaded  the  cry  "Win-ner, 
all  the  win-ner!"  He  sat  on  the  little  balcony  in  the 
sunny  evenings  looking  down  the  back  street  for  the 
boy  to  appear  with  the  "special. "  Then  she  had  to  go 
16 


448  ESTHER    WA^RS 

and  fetch  the  paper.  On  the  rare  occasions  when  he 
won,  the  spectacle  was  even  more  painful.  He  bright- 
ened up,  his  thin  arm  and  hand  moved  nervously,  and 
he  began  to  make  projects  and  indulge  in  hopes  which 
she  knew  were  vain. 

She  insisted,  however,  on  his  taking  regularly  the 
medicine  they  gave  him  at  the  hospital,  and  this  was 
difficult  to  do.  For  his  irritability  increased  in  meas- 
ure as  he  perceived  the  medicine  was  doing  him  no 
good ;  he  found  fault  with  the  doctors,  railed  against 
them  unjustly,  and  all  the  while  the  little  cough  con- 
tinued, and  the  blood-spitting  returned  at  the  end  of 
cruel  intervals,  when  he  had  begun  to  hope  that  at 
least  that  trouble  was  done  with.  One  morning  he 
told  his  wife  that  he  was  going  to  ask  the  doctors  to 
examine  him  again.  They  had  spoken  of  patching  up; 
but  he  wanted  to  know  whether  he  was  going  to  live 
or  die.  There  was  a  certain  relief  in  hearing  him 
speak  so  plainly ;  she  had  had  enough  of  the  torture  of 
hope,  and  would  like  to  know  the  worst.  He  liked 
better  to  go  to  the  hospital  alone,  but  she  felt  that  she 
could  not  sit  at  home  counting  the  minutes  for  him  to 
return,  and  begged  to  be  allowed  to  go  with  him.  To 
her  surprise,  he  offered  no  opposition.  She  had 
expected  that  her  request  would  bring  about  quite  a 
little  scene,  but  he  had  taken  it  so  much  as  a  matter  of 
course  that  she  should  accompany  him  that  she  was 
doubly  glad  that  she  had  proposed  to  go  with  him ;  if 
she  hadn't  he  might  have  accused  her  of  neglecting 
him.  She  put  on  her  hat;  the  day  was  too  hot  for  a 
jacket;  it  was  the  beginning  of  August;  the  town  was 
deserted,  and  the  streets  looked  as  if  they  were  about 
to  evaporate  or  lie  down  exhausted,  and  the  poor,  dry, 


ESTHER     WATERS  449 

dusty  air  that  remained  after  the  season  was  too  poor 
even  for  Esther's  healthy  lungs;  it  made  William 
cough,  and  she  hoped  the  doctors  would  order  him  to 
the  seaside. 

From  the  top  of  their  omnibus  they  could  see  right 
across  the  plateau  of  the  Green  Park,  dry  and  colour- 
less like  a  desert;  as  they  descended  the  hill  they 
noticed  that  autumn  was  already  busy  in  the  foliage ; 
lower  down  the  dells  were  full  of  fallen  leaves.  At 
Hyde  Park  Corner  the  blown  dust  whirled  about  the 
hill-top;  all  along  St.  George's  Place  glimpses  of  the 
empty  Park  appeared  through  the  railings.  The  wide 
pavements,  the  Brompton  Road,  and  a  semi-detached 
public-house  at  the  cross-roads,  announced  suburban 
London  to  the  Londoner. 

"You  see,"  said  William,  "where  them  trees  are, 
where  the  road  turns  off  to  the  left.  That  'ouse  is  the 
'Bell  and  Horns.'  That's  the  sort  of  house  I  should 
like  to  see  you  in. ' ' 

"It's  a  pity  we  didn't  buy  it  when  we  had  the 
money." 

"Buy  it!  That  'ouse  is  worth  ten  thousand  pounds 
if  it's  worth  a  penny." 

"I  was  once  in  a  situation  not  far  from  here.  I  like 
the  Fulham  Road;  it's  like  a  long  village  street,  ain't 
it?" 

Her  first  service  was  with  Mrs.  Dunbar,  in  Sydney 
Street,  and  she  remembered  the  square  church  tower 
at  the  Chelsea  end ;  a  little  further  on  there  was  the 
Vestry  Hall  in  the  King's  Road,  and  then  Oakley 
Street  on  the  left,  leading  down  to  Battersea.  Mrs. 
Dunbar  used  to  go  to  some  gardens  at  the  end  of  the 
King's  Road.     Cremorne  Gardens,  that  was  the  name; 


450  ESTHER    WATERS 

there  used  to  be  fire-works  there,  and  she  often  spent 
the  evening  at  the  back  window  watching  the  rockets 
go  up.  That  was  just  before  Lady  Elwin  had  got  her 
the  situation  as  kitchen  -  maid  at  Woodview.  She 
remembered  the  very  shops — there  was  Palmer's  the 
butterman,  and  there  was  Hyde's  the  grocer's.  Every- 
thing was  just  as  she  had  left  it.  How  many  years 
ago?  Fifteen  or  sixteen.  So  enwrapped  was  she  in 
memories  that  William  had  to  touch  her.  "Here  we 
are,"  he  said;  "don't  you  remember  the  place?" 

She  remembered  very  well  that  great  red  brick  build- 
ing, a  centrepiece  with  two  wings,  surrounded  by  high 
iron  railings  lined  with  gloomy  shrubs.  The  long 
straight  walks,  the  dismal  trees  arow,  where  pale-faced 
men  walked  or  rested  feebly,  had  impressed  themselves 
on  her  young  mind — thin,  patient  men,  pacing  their 
sepulchre.  She  had  wondered  who  they  were,  if  they 
would  get  well;  and  then,  quick  with  sensation  of 
lingering  death,  she  had  hurried  away  on  her  errands. 
The  low  wooden  yellow-painted  gates  were  unchanged. 
She  had  never  before  seen  them  open,  and  it  was  new 
to  her  to  see  the  gardens  filled  with  bright  sunshine 
and  numerous  visitors.  There  were  flowers  in  the 
beds,  and  the  trees  were  beautiful  in  their  leafage.  A 
little  yellow  was  creeping  through,  and  from  time  to 
time  a  leaf  fell  exhausted  from  the  branches. 

William,  who  was  already  familiar  with  the  cus- 
tom of  the  place,  nodded  to  the  porter  and  was  let  pass 
without  question.  He  did  not  turn  to  the  principal 
entrance  in  the  middle  of  the  building,  but  went 
towards  a  side  entrance.  The  house  physician  was 
standing  near  it  talking  with  a  young  man  whom 
Esther  recognised  as  Mr.  Alden.   .  The  thought  that 


ESTHER    WATERS  45  ^ 

he,  too,  might  be  dying  of  consumption  crossed  her 
mind,  but  his  appearance  and  his  healthy,  hearty  laugh 
reassured  her.  A  stout,  common  girl,  healthy  too, 
came  out  of  the  building  with  a  child,  a  little  thing  of 
twelve  or  thirteen,  with  death  in  her  face.  Mr.  Alden 
stopped  her,  and  in  his  cheerful,  kind  manner  hoped 
the  little  one  was  better.  She  answered  that  she  was. 
The  doctor  bade  him  good-bye  and  beckoned  William 
and  Esther  to  follow  him.  Esther  would  have  liked 
to  have  spoken  to  Mr.  Alden.  But  he  did  not  see  her, 
and  she  followed  her  husband,  who  was  talking  with 
the  doctor,  through  the  doorway  into  a  long  passage. 
At  the  end  of  the  passage  there  were  a  number  of  girls 
in  print  dresses.  The  gaiety  of  the  dresses  led  Esther 
to  think  that  they  must  be  visitors.  But  the  little 
cough  warned  her  that  death  was  amongst  them.  As 
she  went  past  she  caught  sight  of  a  wasted  form  in  a 
bath-chair.  The  thin  hands  were  laid  on  the  knees, 
on  a  little  handkerchief,  and  there  were  spots  on  the 
whiteness  deeper  than  the  colour  of  the  dress.  They^ 
passed  down  another  passage,  meeting  a  sister  on  their 
way;  pretty  and  discreet  she  was  in  her  black  dress 
and  veil,  and  she  raised  her  eyes,  glancing  affection- 
ately at  the  young  doctor.  No  doubt  they  loved  each 
other.  The  eternal  love-story  among  so  much  death ! 
Esther  wished  to  be  present  at  the  examination, 
but  a  sudden  whim  made  William  say  that  he  would 
prefer  to  be  alone  with  the  doctor,  and  she  returned 
to  the  gardens.  Mr.  Alden  had  not  yet  gone.  He 
stood  with  his  back  turned  to  her.  The  little  girl  she 
had  seen  him  speaking  to  was  sitting  on  a  bench  under 
the  trees;  she  held  in  her  hands  a  skein  of  yellow 
worsted  which  her  companion  was  winding  into  a  ball. 


452  ESTHER     WATERS 

Two  other  young  women  were  with  them  and  all  four 
were  smiling  and  whispering  and  looking  towards  Mr. 
Alden.  They  evidently  sought  to  attract  his  attention, 
and  wished  him  to  come  and  speak  to  them.  Just  the 
natural  desire  of  women  to  please,  and  moved  by  the 
pathos  of  this  poor  coquetting,  he  went  to  them,  and 
Esther  could  see  that  they  all  wanted  to  talk  to  him. 
She  too  would  have  liked  to  have  spoken  to  him ;  he 
was  an  old  friend.  And  she  walked  up  the  grounds, 
intending  to  pass  by  him  as  she  walked  back.  His 
back  was  still  turned  to  her,  and  they  were  all  so 
interested  that  they  gave  no  heed  to  anything  else.  One 
of  the  young  women  had  an  exceedingly  pretty  face. 
A  small  oval,  perfectly  snow-white,  and  large  blue 
eyes  shaded  with  long  dark  lashes;  a  little  aquiline 
nose;  and  Esther  heard  her  say,  "I  should  be  well 
enough  if  it  wasn't  for  the  cough.  It  isn't  no  better 
since ' '  The  cough  interrupted  the  end  of  the  sen- 
tence, and  affecting  to  misunderstand  her,  Mr.  Alden 
said — 

*'No  better  than  it  was  a  week  ago." 

*'A  week  ago!"  said  the  poor  girl.  "It  is  no  better 
since  Christmas." 

There  was  surprise  in  her  voice,  and  the  pity  of  it 
took  Mr.  Alden  in  the  throat,  and  it  was  with  difficulty 
that  he  answered  that  *'he  hoped  that  the  present  fine 
weather  would  enable  her  to  get  well.  Such  weather 
as  this,"  he  said,  "is  as  good  as  going  abroad." 

This  assertion  was  disputed.  One  of  the  women  had 
been  to  Australia  for  her  health,  and  the  story  of  travel 
was  interspersed  by  the  little  coughs,  terrible  in  their 
apparent  insignificance.  But  it  was  Mr.  Alden  that  the 
others  wished  to  hear  speak ;  they  knew  all  about  their 


ESTHER     WATERS  453 

companion's  trip  to  Australia,  and  in  their  impatience 
their  eyes  went  towards  Esther.     So  Mr.  Alden  became 
aware  of  a  new  presence,  iind  he  turned. 
*'Whatl  is  it  you,  Esther?" 
"Yes,  sir." 

"But  there  doesn't  seem  much  the  matter  with  you. 
You're  all  right." 

"Yes,  I'm  all  right,  sir;  it's  my  husband." 
They  walked  a  few  yards  up  the  path. 
"Your  husband!     I'm  very  sorry." 
"He's  been  an  out-door  patient  for  some  time;  he's 
being  examined  by  the  doctors  now." 
"Whom  did  you  marry,  Esther?" 
"William  Latch,  a  betting  man,  sir." 
"You  married  a  betting  man,    Esther?    How  curi- 
ously things  do    work    out!      I  remember  you  were 
engaged  to  a  pious  young  man,  the  stationer's  fore- 
man.    That  was  when  you  were  with  Miss  Rice ;  you 
know,  I  suppose,  that  she's  dead." 

"No,  sir,  I  didn't  know  it.  I've  had  so  much  trouble 
lately  that  I've  not  been  to  see  her  for  nearly  two 
years.     When  did  she  die,  sir?" 

"About  two  months  ago.  So  you  married  a  betting 
man!  Miss  Rice  did  say  something  about  it,  but  I 
don't  think  I  understood  that  he  was  a  betting  man; 
I  thought  he  was  a  publican." 

"So  he  was,  sir.  We  lost  our  licence  through  the 
betting." 

"You  say  he's  being  examined  by  the  doctor.  Is  it 
a  bad  case?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  is,  sir." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  until  they  reached  the 
gate. 


454  ESTHER    WATERS 

"To  me  this  place  is  infinitely  pathetic.  That  little 
cough  never  silent  for  long.  Did  you  hear  that  poor 
girl  say  with  surprise  that  her  cough  is  no  better  than 
it  was  last  Christmas?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Poor  girl,  I  don't  think  she's  long  for 
this  world. ' ' 

"But  tell  me  about  your  husband,  Esther,"  he  said, 
and  his  face  filled  with  an  expression  of  true  sympathy. 
"I'm  a  subscriber,  and  if  your  husband  would  like  to 
become  an  in-door  patient,  I  hope  you'll  let  me  know." 

"Thank  you,  sir;  you  was  always  the  kindest,  but 
there's  no  reason  why  I  should  trouble  you.  Some 
friends  of  ours  have  already  recommended  him,  and  it 
only  rests  with  himself  to  remain  out  or  go  in." 

He  pulled  out  his  watch  and  said,  "I  am  sorry  to 
have  met  you  in  such  sad  circumstances,  but  I'm  glad 
to  have  seen  you.  It  must  be  seven  years  or  more 
since  you  left  Miss  Rice.  You  haven't  changed  much; 
you  keep  your  good  looks." 

"Oh,  sir." 

He  laughed  at  her  embarrassment  and  walked  across 
the  road  hailing  a  hansom,  just  as  he  used  to  in  old 
times  when  he  came  to  see  Miss  Rice.  The  memory 
of  those  days  came  back  upon  her.  It  was  strange  to 
meet  him  again  after  so  many  years.  She  felt  she  had 
seen  him  now  for  the  last  time.  But  it  was  foolish 
and  wicked,  too,  to  think  of  such  things ;  her  husband 
dying.  .  .  .  But  she  couldn't  help  it;  he  reminded 
her  of  so  much  of  what  was  past  and  gone.  A  m.oment 
after  she  dashed  these  personal  tears  aside  and  walked 
open-hearted  to  meet  William.  What  had  the  doctor 
said?  She  must  know  the  truth.  If  she  was  to  lose 
him  she  would  lose  everything.     No,  not  everything; 


ESTHER    WATERS  455 

her  boy  would  still  remain  to  her,  and  she  felt  that, 
after  all,  her  boy  was  what  was  most  real  to  her  in  life. 
These  thoughts  had  passed  through  her  mind  before 
William  had  had  time  to  answer  her  question. 

"He  said  the  left  lung  was  gone,  that  I'd  never  be 
able  to  stand  another  winter  in  England.  He  said  I 
must  go  to  Eg>^pt." 

"Egypt,"  she  repeated.  **Is  that  very  far  from 
here?" 

"What  matter  how  far  it  is!  If  I  can't  live  in  Eng- 
land I  must  go  where  I  can  live. " 

"Don't  be  cross,  dear.  I  know  it's  your  health  that 
makes  you  that  irritable,  but  it's  hard  to  bear  at 
times." 

"You  won't  care  to  go  to  Egypt  with  me." 

"How  can  you  think  that,  Bill?  Have  I  ever  refused 
you  anything?" 

"Quite  right,  old  girl,  I'm  sorry.  I  know  you'd  do 
anything  for  me.  I've  always  said  so,  haven't  I?  It's 
this  cough  that  makes  me  sharp  tempered  and  fretful. 
I  shall  be  different  when  I   get  to  Egypt." 

"When  do  we  start?" 

"If  we  get  away  by  the  end  of  October  it  will  be  all 
right.  It  will  cost  a  lot  of  money;  the  journey  is 
expensive,  and  we  shall  have  to  stop  there  six  months. 
I  couldn't  think  of  coming  home  before  the  end  of 
April. ' ' 

Esther  did  not  answer.  They  walked  some  yards  in 
silence.     Then  he  said — 

"I've  been  very  unlucky  lately;  there  isn't  much 
over  a  hundred  pounds  in  the  bank." 

"How  much  shall  we  want?" 

"Three  or  four  hundred  pounds  at  least.     We  won't 


45^  ESTHER    WATERS 

take  the  boy  with  ns,  we  couldn't  afford  that;  but  I 
should  like  to  pay  a  couple  of  quarters  in  advance." 

"That  won't  be  much." 

"Not  if  I  have  any  luck.  The  luck  must  turn,  and 
I  have  some  splendid  information  about  the  Great 
Ebor  and  the  Yorkshire  Stakes.  Stack  knows  of  a 
horse  or  two  that's  being  kept  for  Sandown.  Unfor- 
tunately there  is  not  much  doing  in  August.  I  must 
try  to  make  up  the  money:  it's  a  matter  of  life  and 
death." 

It  was  for  his  very  life  that  her  husband  was  now 
gambling  on  the  race-course,  and  a  sensation  of  very 
great  wickedness  came  up  in  her  mind,  but  she  stifled 
it  instantly.  William  had  noticed  the  look  of  fear  that 
appeared  in  her  eyes,  and  he  said — 

"It's  my  last  chance.  I  can't  get  the  money  any 
other  way;  and  I  don't  want  to  die  yet  awhile.  I 
haven't  been  as  good  to  you  as  I'd  like,  and  I  want  to 
do  something  for  the  boy,  you  know. ' ' 

He  had  been  told  not  to  remain  out  after  sundown, 
but  he  was  resolved  to  leave  no  stone  unturned  in  his 
search  for  information,  and  often  he  returned  home  as 
late  as  nine  and  ten  o'clock  at  night  coughing — Esther 
could  hear  him  all  up  the  street.  He  came  in  ready 
to  drop  with  fatigue,  his  pockets  filled  with  sporting 
papers,  and  these  he  studied,  spreading  them  on  the 
table  under  the  lamp,  while  Esther  sat  striving  to  do 
some  needlework.  It  often  dropped  out  of  her 
hands,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  But  she  took 
care  that  he  should  not  see  these  tears;  she  did  not 
wish  to  distress  him  unnecessarily.  Poor  chap!  he 
had  enough  to  put  up  with  as  it  was.  Sometimes  he 
read  out  the  horses'  names  and  asked  her  which  she 


ESTHER    WATERS  457 

thought  would  win,  which  seemed  to  her  a  likely 
name.  But  she  begged  of  him  not  to  ask  her;  they 
had  many  quarrels  on  this  subject,  but  in  the  end  he 
understood  that  it  was  not  fair  to  ask  her.  Some- 
times Stack  and  Journeyman  came  in,  and  they  argued 
about  weights  and  distances,  until  midnight;  old  John 
came  to  see  them,  and  every  day  he  had  heard  some  new 
tip.  It  often  rose  to  Esther's  lips  to  tell  William  to 
back  his  fancy  and  have  done  with  it ;  she  could  see 
that  these  discussions  only  fatigued  him,  that  he  was 
no  nearer  to  the  truth  now  than  he  was  a  fortnight 
ago.  Meanwhile  the  horse  he  had  thought  of  backing 
had  gone  up  in  the  betting.  But  he  said  that  he  must 
be  very  careful.  They  had  only  a  hundred  pounds 
left ;  he  must  be  careful  not  to  risk  this  money  fool- 
ishly— it  was  his  very  life-blood.  If  he  were  to  lose  all 
this  money,  he  wouldn't  only  sign  his  own  death  war- 
rant, but  also  hers.  He  might  linger  on  a  long  while- 
there  was  no  knowing,  but  he  would  never  be  able  to 
do  any  work,  that  was  certain  (unless  he  went  out  to 
Egypt) ;  the  doctor  had  said  so,  and  then  it  would  be 
she  who  would  have  to  support  him.  And  if  God  were 
merciful  enough  to  take  him  off  at  once  he  would  leave 
her  in  a  worse  plight  than  he  had  found  her  in,  and 
the  boy  growing  up!  Oh,  it  was  terrible!  He  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands,  and  seemed  quite  overcome. 
Then  the  cough  would  take  him,  and  for  a  few  minutes 
he  could  only  think  of  himself.  Esther  gave  him  a 
little  milk  to  drink,  and  he  said — 

''There's  a  hundred  pounds  left,  Esther.  It  isn't 
much,  but  it's  something.  I  don't  believe  that  there's 
much  use  in  my  going  to  Egypt.  I  shall  never  get 
well.     It  is  better  that  I  should    pitch  myself   into 


45^  ESTHER    WATERS 

the  river.  That  would  be  the  least  selfish  way  out 
of  it." 

"William,  I  will  not  have  you  talk  in  that  way," 
Esther  said,  laying  down  her  work  and  going  over  to 
him.  "If  you  was  to  do  such  a  thing  I  should  never 
forgive  j^ou.     I  could  never  think  the  same  of  you." 

"All  right,  old  girl,  don't  be  frightened.  I've  been 
thinking  too  much  about  them  horses,  and  am  a  bit 
depressed.  I  daresay  it  will  come  out  all  right.  I 
think  that  Mahomet  is  sure  to  win  the  Great  Ebor, 
don't  you?" 

"I  don't  think  there's  no  better  judge  than  yourself. 
They  all  say  if  he  don't  fall  lame  that  he's  bound  to 
win." 

"Then  Mahomet  shall  carry  my  money.  I'll  back 
him  to-morrow." 

Now  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  what  horse  to 
back  his  spirits  revived.  He  was  able  to  dismiss  the 
subject  from  his  mind,  and  they  talked  of  other  things, 
of  their  son,  and  they  laid  projects  for  his  welfare. 
But  on  the  day  of  the  race,  from  early  morning,  Wil- 
liam could  barely  contain  himself.  Usually  he  took  his 
winnings  and  losings  very  quietly.  When  he  had  been 
especially  unlucky  he  swore  a  bit,  but  Esther  had 
never  seen  any  great  excitement  before  a  race  was 
run.  The  issues  of  this  race  were  extraordinary,  and 
it  was  heart-breaking  to  see  him  suffer;  he  could  not 
remain  still  a  moment.  A  prey  to  all  the  terrors  of 
hope,  exhausted  with  anticipation,  he  rested  himself 
against  the  sideboard  and  wiped  drops  of  sweat  from 
his  forehead.  A  broiling  sunlight  infested  their 
window-panes,  the  room  grew  oven-like,  and  he  was 
obliged  at  last  to  go  into  the  back  parlour  and  lie  down. 


ESTHER    WATERS  459 

He  lay  there  in  his  shirt  sleeves  quite  exhausted, 
hardly  able  to  breathe ;  the  arm  once  so  strong  and 
healthy  was  shrunken  to  a  little  nothing.  He  seemed 
quite  bloodless,  and  looking  at  him  Esther  could  hardly 
hope  that  any  climate  would  restore  him  to  health. 
He  just  asked  her  what  the  time  was,  and  said,  "The 
race  is  being  run  now. "  A  few  minutes  after  he  said, 
'*I  think  Mahomet  has  won.  I  fancied  I  saw  him  get 
first  past  the  post."  He  spoke  as  if  he  were  sure,  and 
said  nothing  about  the  evening  paper.  If  he  were  dis- 
appointed, Esther  felt  that  it  would  kill  him,  and  she 
knelt  down  by  the  bedside  and  prayed  that  God  would 
allow  the  horse  to  win.  It  meant  her  husband's  life, 
that  was  all  she  knew.  Oh,  that  the  horse  might  win ! 
Presently  he  said,  "There's  no  use  praying,  I  feel  sure 
it  is  all  right.  Go  into  the  next  room,  stand  on  the 
balcony  so  that  you  may  see  the  boy  coming  along. ' ' 

A  pale  yellow  sky  rose  behind  the  brick  neighbour- 
hood, and  with  agonised  soul  the  woman  viewed  its 
plausive  serenity.  There  seemed  to  be  hope  in  its 
quietness.  At  that  moment  the  cry  came  up,  "Win- 
ner, Win-ner. "  It  came  from  the  north,  from  the 
east,  and  now  from  the  west.  Three  boys  were  shout- 
ing forth  the  news  simultaneously.  Ah,  if  it  should 
prove  bad  news !  But  somehow  she  too  felt  that  the 
news  was  good.  She  ran  to  meet  the  boy.  She  had  a 
half-penny  ready  in  her  hand;  he  fumbled,  striving  to 
detach  a  single  paper  from  the  quire  under  his  arm. 
Seeing  her  impatience,  he  said,  "Mahomet's  won," 
Then  the  pavement  seemed  to  slide  beneath  her  feet, 
and  the  setting  sun  she  could  hardly  see,  so  full  was 
her  heart,  so  burdened  with  the  happiness  that  she  was 
bringing  to  the  poor  sick  fellow  who  lay  in  his  shirt 


4^0  ESTHER    WATERS 

sleeves  on  the  bed  in  the  back  room.  *'It*s  all  right," 
she  said.  ' '  I  thought  so  too ;  it  seemed  like  it. ' '  His 
face  flushed,  life  seemed  to  come  back.  He  sat  up 
and  took  the  paper  from  her.  "There,"  he  said,  "I've 
got  my  place-money,  too.  I  hope  Stack  and  Journey- 
man come  in  to-night.  I'd  like  to  have  a  chat  about 
this.  Come,  give  me  a  kiss,  dear.  I'm  not  going  to 
die,  after  all.  It  isn't  a  pleasant  thing  to  think  that 
you  must  die,  that  there's  no  hope  for  you,  that  you 
must  go  under  ground.  *  * 

The  next  thing  to  do  was  to  pick  the  winner  of  the 
Yorkshire  Handicap.  In  this  he  was  not  successful, 
but  he  backed  several  winners  at  Sandown  Park,  and 
at  the  close  of  the  week  had  made  nearly  enough  to 
take  him  to  Egypt. 

The  Doncaster  week,  however,  proved  disastrous. 
He  lost  most  of  his  winnings,  and  had  to  look  forward 
to  retrieving  his  fortunes  at  Newmarket.  "The 
worst  of  it  is,  if  I  don't  make  up  the  money  by 
October,  it  will  be  no  use.  They  say  the  November 
fogs  will  polish  me  off. ' ' 

Between  Doncaster  and  Newmarket  he  lost  a  bet, 
and  this  bet  carried  him  back  into  despondency.  He 
felt  it  was  no  use  struggling  against  fate.  Better 
remain  in  London  and  be  taken  away  at  the  end  of 
November  or  December;  he  couldn't  last  much  longer 
than  that.  This  would  allow  him  to  leave  Esther  at 
least  fifty  pounds  to  go  on  with.  The  boy  would  soon 
be  able  to  earn  money.  It  would  be  better  so.  No 
use  wasting  all  this  money  for  the  sake  of  his  health, 
which  wasn't  worth  two-pence-three-farthings.  It 
was  like  throwing  sovereigns  after  farthings.  He 
didn't  want  to  do  any  betting;    he  was  as  hollow  as  a 


ESTHER     WATERS  461 

shell  inside,  he  could  feel  it.  Egypt  could  do  nothing 
for  him,  and  as  he  had  to  go,  better  sooner  than  later. 
Esther  argued  with  him.  What  should  she  have  to 
live  for  if  he  was  taken  from  her?  The  doctors  had 
said  that  Egypt  might  set  him  right.  She  didn't  know 
much  about  such  things,  but  she  had  always  heard  that 
it  was  extraordinary  how  people  got  cured  out  there. 

"That's  true,"  he  said.  "I've  heard  that  people 
who  couldn't  live  a  week  in  England,  who  haven't 
the  length  of  your  finger  of  lung  left,  can  go  on  all 
right  out  there.  I  might  get  something  to  do  out  there, 
and  the  boy  might  come  out  after  us. ' ' 

"That's  the  way  I  like  to  hear  you  talk.  Who 
knows,  at  Newmarket  we  might  have  luck!  Just  one 
big  bet,  a  winner  at  fifty  to  one,  that's  all  we  want." 

"That's  just  what  has  been  passing  in  my  mind. 
I've  got  particular  information  about  the  Cesare witch 
and  Cambridgeshire.  I  could  get  the  price  you  speak 
of — fifty  to  one  against  the  two,  Matchbox  and 
Chasuble  —  the  double  event,  you  know.  I'm 
inclined  to  go  it.     It's  my  last  chance." 


XLIII. 

When  Matchbox  galloped  home  the  winner  of  the 
Cesarewitch  by  five  lengths,  William  was  lying  in  his 
bed,  seemingly  at  death's  door.  He  had  remained  out 
late  one  evening,  had  caught  cold,  and  his  mouth  was 
constantly  filled  with  blood.  He  was  much  worse,  and 
could  hardly  take  notice  of  the  good  news.  When  he 
revived  a  little  he  said,  "It  has  come  too  late."  But 
when  Chasuble  was  backed  to  win  thousands  at  ten  to 
one,  and  Journeyman  and  Stack  assured  him  that  the 
stable  was  quite  confident  of  being  able  to  pull  it  off, 
his  spirits  revived.  He  spoke  of  hedging.  "If,"  he 
said  to  Esther,  "I  was  to  get  out  at  eight  or  nine 
to  one  I  should  be  able  to  leave  you  something,  you 
know,  in  case  of  accidents. "  But  he  would  not  entrust 
laying  off  his  bet  to  either  Stack  or  Journeyman ;  he 
spoke  of  a  cab  and  seeing  to  it  himself.  If  he  did  this 
the  doctor  assured  him  that  it  would  not  much  matter 
whether  Chasuble  won  or  lost.  "The  best  thing  he 
could  do,"  the  doctor  said,  "would  be  to  become  an 
in-door  patient  at  once.  In  the  hospital  he  would  be 
in  an  equable  temperature,  and  he  would  receive  an 
attention  which  he  could  not  get  at  home." 

William  did  not  like  going  into  the  hospital;  it 
would  be  a  bad  omen.  If  he  did,  he  felt  sure  that 
Chasuble  would  not  win. 

"What  has  going  or  not  going  to  the  hospital  to  do 
with  Chasuble's  chance  of  winning  the  Cambridge- 
shire?" said  the  doctor.     "This  window  is  loose  in  its 

462 


ESTHER     WATERS  4^3 

sash,  a  draught  comes  under  the  door,  and  if  you  close 
out  the  draughts  the  atmosphere  of  the  room  becomes 
stuffy.  You're  thinking  of  going  abroad;  a  fortnight's 
nice  rest  is  just  what  you  want  to  set  you  up  for  your 
journey." 

So  he  allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded ;  he  was  taken 
to  the  hospital,  and  Esther  remained  at  home  waiting 
for  the  fateful  afternoon.  Now  that  the  dying  man 
was  taken  from  her  she  had  no  work  to  distract  her 
thought.  The  unanswerable  question — would  Chas- 
uble win? — was  always  before  her.  She  saw  the 
slender  greyhound  creatures  as  she  had  seen  them  at 
Epsom,  through  a  sea  of  heads  and  hats,  and  she  asked 
herself  if  Chasuble  was  the  brown  horse  that  had  gal- 
loped in  first,  or  the  chestnut  that  had  trotted  in  last. 
She  often  thought  she  was  going  mad — her  head 
seemed  like  it — a  sensation  of  splitting  like  a  piece  of 
calico.  .  .  .  She  went  to  see  her  boy.  Jack  was  a 
great  tall  fellow  of  fifteen,  and  had  happily  lost  none 
of  his  affection  for  his  mother,  and  great  sweetness 
rose  up  within  her.  She  looked  at  his  long,  straight, 
yellow-stockinged  legs;  she  settled  the  collar  of  his 
cloak,  and  slipped  her  fingers  into  his  leathern  belt  as 
they  walked  side  by  side.  He  was  bare-headed, 
according  to  the  fashion  of  his  school,  and  she  kissed 
the  wild,  dark  curls  with  which  his  head  was  run  over;|| 
they  were  much  brighter  in  colour  when  he  was  a  little 
boy — those  days  when  she  slaved  seventeen  hours  a 
day  for  his  dear  life  !  But  he  paid  her  back  tenfold  for 
the  hardship  she  had  undergone. 

She  listened  to  the  excellent  report  his  masters  gave 
of  his  progress,  and  walked  through  the  quadrangles 
and  the  corridors  with  him,  thinking  of  the  sound  of  his 


4^4  ESTHER    WATERS 

voice  as  he  told  her  the  story  of  his  classes  and  his 
studies.  She  must  live  for  him;  though  for  herself 
she  had  had  enough  of  life.  But,  thank  God,  she  had 
her  darling  boy,  and  whatever  unhappiness  there 
might  be  in  store  for  her  she  would  bear  it  for  his 
sake.  He  knew  that  his  father  was  ill,  but  she 
refrained  and  told  him  no  word  of  the  tragedy  that 
^  i  was  hanging  over  them.  The  noble  instincts  which 
^^  Iwere  so  intrinsically  Esther  Waters'  told  her  that  it 
rwere  a  pity  to  soil  at  the  outset  a  young  life  with  a 
sordid  story,  and  though  it  would  have  been  an  inex- 
pressible relief  to  her  to  have  shared  her  trouble  with 
her  boy,  she  forced  back  her  tears  and  courageously 
bore  her  cross  alone,  without  once  allowing  its  edge  to 
touch  him. 

And  every  day  that  visitors  were  allowed  she  went 
to  the  hospital  with  the  newspaper  containing  the  last 
betting.  "Chasuble,  ten  to  one  taken,"  William  read 
out.  The  mare  had  advanced  three  points,  and  Wil- 
liam looked  at  Esther  inquiringly,  and  with  hope  in 
his  eyes. 

"I  think  she'll  win,"  he  said,  raising  himself  in  his 
cane  chair. 

"I  hope  so,  dear,"  she  murmured,  and  she  settled 
his  cushions. 

Two  days  after  the  mare  was  back  again  at  thirteen 
to  one  taken  and  offered;  she  went  back  even  as 
far  as  eighteen  to  one,  and  then  returned  for  a  while 
to  twelve  to  one.  This  fluctuation  meant  that  some- 
thing was  wrong,  and  William  began  to  lose  hope. 
But  on  the  following  day  the  mare  was  backed  to  win 
a  good  deal  of  money  at  Tattersall's,  and  once  more 
she  stood  at  ten  to  one.     Seeing  her  back  at  the  old 


ESTHER     WATERS  465 

price  made  William  look  so  hopeful  that  a  patient 
stopped  as  he  passed  down  the  corridor,  and  catching- 
sight  of  the  Sportsman  on  William's  lap,  he  asked  him 
if  he  was  interested  in  racing.  William  told  him  that 
he  was,  and  that  if  Chasuble  won  he  would  be  able  to 
go  to  Egypt. 

"Them  that  has  money  can  buy  health  as  well  as 
everything  else.  We'd  all  get  well  if  we  could  get  out 
there." 

William  told  him  how  much  he  stood  to  win. 

"That'll  keep  you  going  long  enough  to  set  you 
straight.  You  say  the  mare's  backed  at  ten  to  one — 
two  hundred  to  twenty.  I  wonder  if  I  could  get  the 
money.     I  might  sell  up  the  'ouse." 

But  before  he  had  time  to  realise  the  necessary 
money  the  mare  was  driven  back  to  eighteen  to  one, 
and  he  said — 

"She  won't  win.  I  might  as  well  leave  the  wife  in 
the  'ouse.     There's  no  luck  for  them  that  comes  'ere." 

On  the  day  of  the  race  Esther  walked  through  the 
streets  like  one  daft,  stupidly  interested  in  the  passers- 
by  and  the  disputes  that  arose  between  the  drivers  of 
cabs  and  omnibuses.  Now  and  then  her  thoughts 
collected,  and  it  seemed  to  her  impossible  that  the 
mare  should  win.  If  she  did  they  would  have  ^2,500, 
and  would  go  to  Egypt.  But  she  could  not  imagine 
such  a  thing ;  it  seemed  so  much  more  natural  that  the 
horse  should  lose,  and  that  her  husband  should  die, 
and  that  she  should  have  to  face  the  world  once  more. 
She  offered  up  prayers  that  Chasuble  might  win, 
although  it  did  not  seem  right  to  address  God  on  the 
subject,  but  her  heart  often  felt  like  breaking,  and 
she  had  to  do  something.     And  she  had  no  doubt  that 


f 


466  ESTHER    WATERS 

n  God  would  forgive  her.  But  now  that  the  day  had 
come  she  did  not  feel  as  if  he  had  granted  her  request. 
At  the  same  time  it  did  not  seem  possible  that  her 

1  husband   was   going   to   die.       It  was  all  so  hard  to 

I  understand. 

'^  She  stopped  at  the  "Bell  and  Horns"  to  see  what 
the  time  was,  and  was  surprised  to  find  it  was  half- 
an-hour  later  than  she  had  expected.  The  race  was 
being  run,  Chasuble's  hoofs  were  deciding  whether 
her  husband  was  to  live  or  die.  It  was  on  the  wire  by 
this  time.  The  wires  were  distinct  upon  a  blue  and 
dove-coloured  sky.  Did  that  one  go  to  Newmarket, 
or  the  other?     Which? 

The  red  building  came  in  sight,  and  a  patient  walked 
slowly  up  the  walk,  his  back  turned  to  her;  another 
had  sat  down  to  rest.  Sixteen  years  ago  patients 
were  walking  there  then,  and  the  leaves  were  scatter- 
ing then  just  as  now.  .  .  .  Without  transition  of 
thought  she  wondered  when  the  first  boy  would  appear 
with  the  news.  William  was  not  in  the  grounds;  he 
was  upstairs  behind  those  windows.  Poor  fellow,  she 
could  fancy  him  sitting  there.  Perhaps  he  was  v/atch- 
ing  for  her  out  of  one  of  those  windows.  But  there 
was  no  use  her  going  up  until  she  had  the  news ;  she 
must  wait  for  the  paper.  She  walked  up  and  down 
listening  for  the  cry.  Every  now  and  then  expectation 
led  her  to  mistake  some  ordinary  cry  for  the  terrible 
"Win-ner,  all  the  win-ner, "  with  which  the  whole  town 
would  echo  in  a  few  minutes.  She  hastened  forward. 
No,  it  was  not  it.  At  last  she  heard  the  word  shrieked 
behind  her.  She  hastened  after  the  boy,  but  failed  to 
overtake  him.  Returning,  she  met  another,  gave  him 
a  half-penny  and  took  a  paper.     Then  she  remembered 


ESTHER     WATERS  4^7 

she  must  ask  the  boy  to  tell  her  who  won.  But  heed- 
less of  her  question  he  had  run  across  the  road  to  sell 
papers  to  some  men  who  had  come  out  of  a  public- 
house.  She  must  not  give  William  the  paper  and  wait 
for  him  to  read  the  news  to  her.  If  the  news  were  bad 
the  shock  might  kill  him.  She  must  learn  first  what 
the  news  was,  so  that  her  face  and  manner  might  pre- 
pare him  for  the  worst  if  need  be.  So  she  offered  the 
paper  to  the  porter  and  asked  him  to  tell  her. 
''Bramble,  King  of  Trumps,  Young  Hopeful,"  he 
read  out. 

"Are  you  sure  that  Chasuble  hasn't  won?" 
"Of  course  I'm  sure,  there  it  is."  - 

"I  can't  read,"  she  said  as  she  turned  away.  ^^ 
The  news  had  stunned  her;  the  world  seemed  to 
lose  reality ;  she  was  uncertain  what  to  do,  and  several 
times  repeated  to  herself,  "There's  nothing  for  it  but 
to  go  up  and  tell  him.  I  don't  see  what  else  I  can 
do."  The  staircase  was  very  steep;  she  climbed  it 
slowly,  and  stopped  at  the  first  landing  and  looked  out 
of  the  window.  A  poor  hollow-chested  creature,  the 
wreck  of  a  human  being,  struggled  up  behind  her.  He 
had  to  rest  several  times,  and  in  the  hollow  building 
his  cough  sounded  loud  and  hollow.  "It  isn't  gener- 
ally so  loud  as  that, ' '  she  thought,  and  wondered  how 
she  could  tell  William  the  news.  "He  wanted  to  see 
Jack  grow  up  to  be  a  man.  He  thought  that  we  might 
all  go  to  Egypt,  and  that  he'd  get  quite  well  there,  for 
there's  plenty  of  sunshine  there,  but  now  he'll  have  to 
make  up  his  mind  to  die  in  the  November  fogs."  Her 
thoughts  came  strangely  clear,  and  she  was  astonished 
at  her  indifference,  until  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling 
took  her  as  she  was  going  up  the  last  flight.      She 


468  ESTHER     WATERS 

couldn't  tell  him  the  news;  it  was  too  cruel.  She  let 
the  patient  pass  her,  and  when  alone  on  the  landing 
she  looked  down  into  the  depth.  She  thought  she'd 
like  to  fall  over;  anything  rather  than  to  do  what  she 
knew  she  must  do.  But  her  cowardice  only  endured 
for  a  moment,  and  with  a  firm  step  she  walked  into 
the  corridor.  It  seemed  to  cross  the  entire  building, 
and  was  floored  and  wainscotted  with  the  same  brown 
varnished  wood  as  the  staircase.  There  were  benches 
along  the  walls ;  and  emaciated  and  worn-out  men  lay 
on  the  long  cane  chairs  in  the  windowed  recesses  by 
which  the  passage  was  lighted.  The  wards,  containing 
sometimes  three,  sometimes  six  or  seven  beds,  opened 
on  to  this  passage.  The  doors  of  the  wards  were  all 
open,  and  as  she  passed  along  she  started  at  the  sight 
of  a  boy  sitting  up  in  bed.  His  head  had  been  shaved, 
and  only  a  slight  bristle  covered  the  crown.  The 
head  and  face  were  a  large  white  mass  with  two  eyes. 

At  the  end  of  the  passage  there  was  a  window ;  and 
William  sat  there  reading  a  book.  He  saw  her  before 
she  saw  him,  and  w^hen  she  caught  sight  of  him  she 
stopped,  holding  the  paper  loose  before  her  between 
finger  and  thumb,  and  as  she  approached  she  saw  that 
her  manner  had  already  broken  the  news  to  him. 

"I  see  that  she  didn't  win,"  he  said. 

"No,  dear,   she  didn't  win.     We  wasn't  lucky  this 

time :  next  time ' ' 

/^  "There  is  no  next  time,  at  least  for  me.  I  shall  be 
far  away  from  here  when  flat  racing  begins  again. 
The  November  fogs  will  do  for  me,  I  feel  that  they 
will.  I  hope  there'll  be  no  lingering,  that's  all. 
Better  to  know  the  worst  and  make  up  your  mind. 
So  I  have  to  go,  have  I?    So  there's  no  hope,  and  I 


ESTHER    WATERS  469 

shall  be  under  ground  before  the  next  meeting.     I 
shall  never  lay  or  take  the  odds  again.     It  do  seem 
strange.     If  only  that  mare  had  won.     I  knew  damned   „ 
well  she  wouldn't  if  I  came  here. "  -^^ 

Then,  catching  sight  of  the  pained  look  on  his  wife's 
face,  he  said,  "I  don't  suppose  it  made  no  difference; 
it  was  to  be,  and  what  has  to  be  has  to  be.  I've  got  to 
go  under  ground.  I  felt  it  was  to  be  all  along. 
Egypt  would  have  done  me  no  good ;  I  never  believed 
in  it — only  a  lot  of  false  hope.  You  don't  think  what  I 
say  is  true.  Look  'ere,  do  you  know  what  book  this  is? 
This  is  the  Bible ;  that'll  prove  to  you  that  I  knew  the 
game  was  up.  I  knew,  I  can't  tell  you  how,  but  I 
knew  the  mare  wouldn't  win.  One  always  seems  to 
know.  Even  when  I  backed  her  I  didn't  feel  about  her 
like  I  did  about  the  other  one,  and  ever  since  I've  been 
feeling  more  and  more  sure  that  it  wasn't  to  be. 
Somehow  it  didn't  seem  likely,  and  to-day  something 
told  me  that  the  game  was  up,  so  I  asked  for  this 
book.   .   .   .   There's  wonderful  beautiful  things  in  it." 

"There  is,  indeed.  Bill;  and  I  hope  you  won't  get 
tired  of  it,  but  will  go  on  reading  it. ' ' 

"It's  extraordinary  how  consoling  it  is.  Listen  to 
this.     Isn't  it  beautiful;  ain't  them  words  heavenly?" 

"They  is,  indeed.    I  knew  you'd  come  to  God  at  last. " 

"I'm  afraid  I've  not  led  a  good  life.  I  wouldn't 
listen  to  you  when  you  used  to  tell  me  of  the  lot  of 
harm  the  betting  used  to  bring  on  the  poor  people 
what  used  to  come  to  our  place.  There's  Sarah,  I  sup- 
pose she's  out  of  prison  by  this.  You've  seen  nothing 
of  her,  I  suppose?"  y 

"No,  nothing."  ^ 

"There  was  Ketley." 


470  ESTHER    WATERS 

''No,  Bill,  don't  let's  think  about  it.  If  you're  truly 
sorr}^,  God  will  forgive. ' ' 

"Do  you  think  He  will — and  the  others  that  we 
know  nothing  about?  I  wouldn't  listen  to  3^ou;  I  was 
headstrong,  but  I  understand  it  all  now.  My  eyes  'ave 
been  opened.  Them  pious  folk  that  got  up  the  prose- 
cution knew  what  they  was  about.  I  forgive  them  one 
and  all." 

William  coughed  a  little.  The  conversation  paused, 
and  the  cough  was  repeated  down  the  corridor.  Now 
it  came  from  the  men  lying  on  the  long  cane  chairs ; 
now  from  the  poor  emaciated  creature,  hollow  cheeks, 
brown  eyes  and  beard,  w^ho  had  just  come  out  of  his 
ward  and  had  sat  down  on  a  bench  by  the  w^all.  Now 
it  came  from  an  old  man  six  feet  high,  with  snow- 
white  hair.  He  sat  near  them,  and  worked  assiduously 
at  a  piece  of  tapestry.  "It'll  be  better  when  it's  cut," 
he  said  to  one  of  the  nurses,  who  had  stopped  to  com- 
pliment him  on  his  work;  "it'll  be  better  when  it's 
cut."  Then  the  cough  came  from  one  of  the  wards, 
and  Esther  thought  of  the  fearsome  boy  sitting  bolt 
up,  his  huge  tallow-like  face  staring  through  the  silence 
of  the  room.  A  moment  after  the  cough  came  from 
her  husband's  lips,  and  they  looked  at  each  other. 
Both  wanted  to  speak,  and  neither  knew  what  to  say. 
At  last  William  spoke. 

"I  was  saying  that  I  never  had  that  feeling  about 
Chasuble  as  one  'as  about  a  winner.  Did  she  run 
second?  Just  like  my  luck  if  she  did.  Let  me  see 
the  paper." 

Esther  handed  it  to  him. 

"Bramble,  a  fifty  to  one  chance,  not  one  man  in  a 
hundred   backed    her;    King   of    Trumps,   there   was 


ESTHER     WATERS  .  47i 

some  place  money  lost  on  him ;  Young  Hopeful,  a  rank 
outsider.     What  a  day  for  the  bookies!" 

"You  mustn't  think  of  them  things  no  more,"  said 
Esther.  "You've  got  the  Book;  it'll  do  you  more 
good." 

"If  I'd  only  have  thought  of  Bramble  ...  I 
could  have  had  a  hundred  to  one  against  Matchbox 
and  Bramble  coupled." 

"What's  the  use  of  thinking  of  things  that's  over? 
We  should  think  of  the  future." 

"If  I'd  only  been  able  to  hedge  that  bet  I  should 
have  been  able  to  leave  you  something  to  go  on  with, 
but  now,  when  everything  is  paid  for,  you'll  have 
hardly  a  five-pound  note.  You've  been  a  good  wife  to 
me,  and  I've  been  a  bad  husband  to  you." 

"Bill,  you  mustn't  speak  like  that.  You  must  try  to 
make  your  peace  with  God.  Think  of  Him.  He'll 
think  of  us  that  you  leave  behind.  I've  always  had 
faith  in  Him.     He'll  not  desert  me." 

Her  eyes  were  quite  dry;  the  instinct  of  life  seemed 
to  have  left  her.  They  spoke  some  little  while  longer, 
until  it  was  time  for  visitors  to  leave  the  hospital.  It 
was  not  until  she  got  into  the  Fulham  Road  that  tears 
began  to  run  down  her  cheeks ;  they  poured  faster  and 
faster,  like  rain  after  long  dry  weather.  The  whole 
world  disappeared  in  a  mist  of  tears.  And  so  over- 
come was  she  by  her  grief  that  she  had  to  lean  against 
the  railings,  and  then  the  passers-by  turned  and  looked 
at  her  curiously. 


XLIV. 

With  fair  weather  he  might  hold  on  till  Christmas, 
but  if  much  fog  was  about  he  would  go  off  with  the  last 
leaves.  One  day  Esther  received  a  letter  asking  her 
to  defer  her  visit  from  Friday  to  Sunday.  He  hoped 
to  be  better  on  Sunday,  and  then  they  would  arrange 
when  she  should  come  to  take  him  away.  He  begged 
of  her  to  have  Jack  home  to  meet  him.  He  wanted  to 
see  his  boy  before  he  died. 

Mrs.  Collins,  a  woman  who  lived  in  the  next  room, 
read  the  letter  to  Esther. 

*'If  you  can,  do  as  he  wishes.  Once  they  gets  them 
fancies  into  their  heads  there's  no  getting  them  out." 

*'If  he  leaves  the  hospital  on  a  day  like  this  it'll  be 
the  death  of  him." 

Both  women  went  to  the  window.  The  fog  was  so 
thick  that  only  an  outline  here  and  there  was  visible  of 
the  houses  opposite.  The  lamps  burnt  low,  mournful, 
as  m  a  city  of  the  dead,  and  the  sounds  that  rose  out  of 
the  street  added  to  the  terror  of  the  strange  darkness. 

"What  do  you  say  about  Jack?  That  I'm  to  send  for 
him.  It's  natural  he  should  like  to  see  the  boy 
before  he  goes,  but  it  would  be  cheerfuller  to  take  him 
to  the  hospital. ' ' 

*'You  see,  he  wants  to  die  at  home;  he  wants  you  to 
be  with  him  at  the  last. ' ' 

*'Yes,  I  want  to  see  the  last  of  him.  But  the  boy, 
Where's  he  to  sleep?" 

472 


ESTHER     WATERS  473 

**We  can  lay  a  mattress  down  in  my  room— an  old 
woman  like  me,  it  don't  matter." 

Sunday  morning  was  harsh  and  cold,  and  when  she 
came  out  of  South  Kensington  Station  a  fog  was  ris- 
ing in  the  squares,  and  a  great  whiff  of  3'ellow  cloud 
drifted  down  upon  the  house-tops.  In  the  Fulham 
road  the  tops  of  the  houses  disappeared,  and  the  light 
of  the  third  gas-lamp  was  not  visible. 

"This  is  the  sort  of  weather  that  takes  them  off.  I 
can  hardly  breathe  it  myself." 

Everything  was  shadow-like ;  those  walking  in  front 
of  her  passed  out  of  sight  like  shades,  and  once  she 
thought  she  must  have  missed  her  way,  though  that  was 
impossible,  for  her  way  was  quite  straight.  .  .  .  Sud- 
denly the  silhouette  of  the  winged  building  rose  up 
enormous  on  the  sulphur  sky.  The  low-lying  gardens 
were  full  of  poisonous  vapour,  and  the  thin  trees 
seemed  like  the  ghosts  of  consumptive  men.  The 
porter  coughed  like  a  dead  man  as  she  passed,  and  he 
said,  "Bad  weather  for  the  poor  sick  ones  upstairs." 

She  was  prepared  for  a  change  for  the  worse,  but 
she  did  not  expect  to  see  a  living  man  looking  so 
like  a  dead  one. 

He  could  no  longer  lie  back  in  bed  and  breathe,  so 
he  was  propped  up  with  pillows,  and  he  looked  even 
as  shadow-like  as  those  she  had  half  seen  in  the  fog- 
cloud.  There  was  fog  even  in  the  ward,  and  the 
lights  burned  red  in  the  silence.  There  were  five  beds 
— low  iron  bedsteads — and  each  was  covered  with  a 
dark  red  rug.  In  the  furthest  corner  lay  the  wreck  of 
a  great  working  man.  He  wore  his  hob-nails  and  his 
corduroys,  an 3  his  once  brawny  arm  lay  along  his 
thigh,  shrivelled  and  powerless  as  a  child's.     In  the 


474  ESTHER    WATERS 

middle  of  the  room  a  little  clerk,  wasted  and  weary, 
without  any  strength  at  all,  lay  striving  for  breath. 
The  navvy  was  alone ;  the  little  clerk  had  his  family 
round  him,  his  wife  and  his  two  children,  a  baby  in 
arms  and  a  little  boy  three  years  old.  The  doctor  had 
just  come  in,  and  the  woman  was  prattling  gaily  about 
her  confinement.     She  said — 

*'I  was  up  the  following  week.  Wonderful  what  we 
women  can  go  through.  No  one  would  think  it.  .  .  . 
brought  the  childer  to  see  their  father ;  they  is  a  little 
idol  to  him,  poor  fellow." 

"How  are  you  to-day,  dearie?"  Esther  said,  as  she 
took  a  seat  by  her  husband's  bed. 

"Better  than  I  was  on  Friday,  but  this  weather  '11 
do  for  me  if  it  continues  much  longer.  .  .  .  You  see 
them  two  beds?  They  died  yesterday,  and  I've  'eard 
that  three  or  four  that  left  the  hospital  are  gone,  too." 

The  doctor  came  to  William's  bed.  "Well,  are  you 
still  determined  to  go  home?"  he  said. 

"Yes;  I'd  like  to  die  at  home.  You  can't  do  noth- 
ing for  me.  ...  I'd  like  to  die  at  home;  I  want  to  see 
my  boy. ' ' 

"You  can  see  Jack  here,"  said  Esther. 

"I'd  sooner  see  him  at  'ome.  ...  I  suppose  you 
don't  want  the  trouble  of  a  death  in  the  'ouse." 

"Oh,  William,  how  can  you  speak  so!"  The  patient 
coughed  painfully,  and  leaned  against  the  pillows, 
unable  to  speak. 

Esther  remained  with  William  till  the  time  per- 
mitted to  visitors  had  expired.  He  could  not  speak  to 
her,  but  she  knew  he  liked  her  to  be  with  him. 

When  she  came  on  Thursday  to  take  him  away,  he 
was  a  little  better.     The  clerk's  wife  was  chattering; 


ESTHER     WATERS  475 

the  great  navvy  lay  in  the  corner,  still  as  a  block  of 
stone.  Esther  often  looked  at  him  and  wondered  if  he 
had  no  friend  who  could  spare  an  hour  to  come  and  see 
him. 

"I  was  beginning  to  think  that  you  wasn't  coming," 
said  William. 

"He's  that  restless,"  said  the  clerk's  wife;  "asking 
the  time  every  three  or  four  minutes." 

"How  could  you  think  that?"  said  Esther. 

"I  dun  know  .   .   .  you're  a  bit  late,  aren't  you?" 

"It  often  do  make  them  that  restless, "  said  the  clerk's 
wife.  "But  my  poor  old  man  is  quiet  enough — aren't 
you,  dear?"  The  dying  clerk  could  not  answer,  and 
the  woman  turned  again  to  Esther. 

"And  how  do  you  find  him  to-day?" 

"Much  the  same.  ...  I  think  he's  a  bit  better; 
stronger,  don't  yer  know.  But  this  w^eather  is  that 
trying.  I  don't  know  how  it  was  up  your  way,  but 
down  my  way  I  never  seed  such  a  fog.  I  thought  I'd 
have  to  turn  back. ' '  At  that  moment  the  baby  began 
to  cry,  and  the  woman  walked  up  and  down  the  ward, 
rocking  it  violently,  talking  loud,  and  making  a  great 
deal  of  noise.  But  she  could  not  quiet  him.  .  .  . 
"Hungry  again,"  she  said.  "I  never  seed  such  a  child 
for  the  breast,"  and  she  sat  down  and  unbuttoned  her 
dress.  When  the  young  doctor  entered  she  hurriedly 
covered  herself;  he  begged  her  to  continue,  and  spoke 
about  her  little  boy.  She  showed  him  a  scar  on  his 
throat.  He  had  been  suffering,  but  it  was  all  right 
now.     The  doctor  glanced  at  the  breathless  father. 

"A  little  better  to-day,  thank  you,  doctor." 

"That's  all  right;"  and  the  doctor  went  over  to 
William. 


476  ESTHER     WATERS 

"Are  you  still  determined  to  leave  the  hospital?"  he 
said. 

"Yes,  I  want  to  go  home.     I  want  to " 

"You'll  find  this  weather  very  trying;  you'd 
better ' ' 

"No,  thank  you,  sir.  I  should  like  to  go  home. 
You've  been  very  kind;  you've  done  everything  that 
could  be  done  for  me.  But  it's  God's  will.  .  .  .  My 
wife  is  very  grateful  to  you,  too." 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  am,  sir.  However  am  I  to  thank 
you  for  your  kindness  to  my  husband?" 

"I'm  sorry  I  couldn't  do  more.  But  you'll  want 
the  sister  to  help  you  to  dress  him.  I'll  send  her  to 
you." 

When  they  got  him  out  of  bed,  Esther  was  shocked 
at  the  spectacle  of  his  poor  body.  There  was  nothing 
left  of  him.  His  poor  chest,  his  wasted  ribs,  his  legs 
gone  to  nothing,  and  the  strange  weakness,  worst  of 
all,  which  made  it  so  hard  for  them  to  dress  him.  At 
last  it  was  nearly  done:  Esther  laced  one  boot,  the 
nurse  the  other,  and,  leaning  on  Esther's  arm,  he 
looked  round  the  room  for  the  last  time.  The  navvy 
turned  round  on  his  bed  and  said — 

"Good-bye,  mate." 

"Good-bye.   .  .   .  Good-bye,  all." 

The  clerk's  little  son  clung  to  his  mother's  skirt, 
frightened  at  the  weakness  of  so  big  a  man. 

"Go  and  say  good-bye  to  the  gentleman." 

The  little  boy  came  forward  timidly,  offering  his 
hand.  William  looked  at  the  poor  little  white  face ;  he 
nodded  to  the  father  and  went  out. 

As  he  went  downstairs  he  said  he  would  like  to  go 
home  in  a  hansom.     The  doctor  and  nurse  expostu- 


ESTHER     WATERS  477 

lated,  but  he  persisted  until  Esther  begged  of  him  to 
forego  the  wish  for  her  sake. 

"They  do  rattle  so,  these  four-wheelers,  especially 
when  the  windows  are  up.     One  can't  speak." 

The  cab  jogged  up  Piccadilly,  and  as  it  climbed  out 
of  the  hollow  the  dying  man's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
circle  of  lights  that  shone  across  the  Green  Park. 
They  looked  like  a  distant  village,  and  Esther  won- 
dered if  William  was  thinking  of  Shoreham — she  had 
seen  Shoreham  look  like  that  sometimes — or  if  he  was 
thinking  that  he  was  looking  on  London  for  the  last 
time.  Was  he  saying  to  himself,  "I  shall  never, 
never  see  Piccadilly  again"?  They  passed  St.  James's 
Street.  The  Circus,  with  its  mob  of  prostitutes,  came 
into  view;  the  ''Criterion"  bar,  with  its  loafers  stand- 
ing outside.  William  leaned  a  little  forward,  and 
Esther  was  sure  he  was  thinking  that  he  would  never 
go  into  that  bar  again.  The  cab  turned  to  the  left, 
and  Esther  said  that  it  would  cross  Soho,  perhaps  pass 
down  Old  Compton  Street,  opposite  their  old  house. 
It  happened  that  it  did,  and  Esther  and  William 
wondered  who  were  the  new  people  who  were  selling 
beer  and  whisky  in  the  bar?  All  the  while  boys  were 
crying,  "Win-ner,  all  the  win-ner!" 

"The was  run  to-day.     Flat  racing  all  over,  all 

over  for  this  year. ' ' 

Esther  did  not  answer.  The  cab  passed  over  a  piece 
of  asphalte,  and  he  said — 

"Is  Jack  waiting  for  us?" 

"Yes,  he  came  home  yesterday." 

The  fog  was  thick  in  Bloomsbury,  and  when  he  got 
out  of  the  cab  he  was  taken  with  a  fit  of  coughing,  and 
had  to  cling  to  the  railings.     She  had  to  pay  the  cab, 


478  ESTHER    WATERS 

and  it  took  some  time  to  find  the  money.  Would  no 
one  open  the  door?  She  was  surprised  to  see  him 
make  his  way  up  the  steps  to  the  bell,  and  having  got 
her  change,  she  followed  him  into  the  house. 

"I  can  manage.     Go  on  first;  I'll  follow." 

And  stopping  every  three  or  four  steps  for  rest,  he 
slowly  dragged  himself  up  to  the  first  landing.  A 
door  opened  and  Jack  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the 
lighted  room. 

"Is  that  you,  mother?" 

"Yes,  dear;  your  father  is  coming  up.'* 

The  boy  came  forward  to  help,  but  his  mother 
whispered,  "He'd  rather  come  up  by  himself." 

William  had  just  strength  to  walk  into  the  room; 
they  gave  him  a  chair,  and  he  fell  back  exhausted. 
He  looked  round,  and  seemed  pleased  to  see  his  home 
again.  Esther  gave  him  some  milk,  into  which  she 
had  put  a  little  brandy,  and  he  gradually  revived. 

"Come  this  way.  Jack;  I  want  to  look  at  you;  come 
into  the  light  where  I  can  see  you." 

"Yes,  father." 

"I  haven't  long  to  see  you.  Jack.  I  wanted  to  be 
with  you  and  your  mother  in  our  own  home.  I  can 
talk  a  little  now :  I  may  not  be  able  to  to-morrow. ' ' 

"Yes,  father." 

"I  want  you  to  promise  me,  Jack,  that  you'll  never 
have  nothing  to  do  with  racing  and  betting.  It  hasn't 
brought  me  or  your  mother  any  luck. " 

"Very  well,  father." 

"You  promise  me.  Jack.  Give  me  your  hand.  You 
promise  me  that,  Jack?" 

"Yes,  father,  I  promise." 

"I   see  it   all  clearly  enough  now.      Your  mother, 


ESTHER    WATERS  479 

Jack,  is  the  best  woman  in  the  world.  She  loved  you 
better  than  I  did.  She  worked  for  you — that  is  a  sad 
story.     I  hope  you'll  never  hear  it." 

Husband  and  wife  looked  at  each  other,  and  in  that 
look  the  wife  promised  the  husband  that  the  son 
should  never  know  the  story  of  her  desertion. 

"She  was  always  against  the  betting.  Jack;  she 
always  knew  it  would  bring  us  ill-luck.  I  was  once 
well  off,  but  I  lost  everything.  No  good  comes  of 
money  that  one  doesn't  work  for. ' ' 

*'rm  sure  you  worked  enough  for  what  you 
won,"  said  Esther;  "travelling  day  and  night  from 
race-course  to  race-course.  Standing  on  them  race- 
courses in  all  weathers ;  it  was  the  colds  you  caught 
standing  on  them  race-courses  that  began  the  mis- 
chief." 

"I  worked  hard  enough,  that's  true;  but  it  was  not 
the  right  kind  of  work.  .  .  .  I  can't  argue,  Esther.  .  .  . 
But  I  know  the  truth  now,  what  you  always  said  was 
the  truth.  No  good  comes  of  money  that  hasn't  been 
properly  earned." 

He  sipped  the  brandy-and-milk  and  looked  at  Jack, 
who  was  crying  bitterly. 

"You  mustn't  cry  like  that.  Jack;  I  want  you  to 
listen  to  me.  I've  still  something  on  my  mind.  Your 
mother.  Jack,  is  the  best  woman  that  ever  lived. 
You're  too  young  to  understand  how  good.  I  didn't 
know  how  good  for  a  long  time,  but  I  found  it  all  out 
in  time,  as  you  will  later.  Jack,  when  you  are  a  man. 
I'd  hoped  to  see  you  grow  up  to  be  a  man,  Jack,  and 
your  mother  and  I  thought  that  you'd  have  a  nice  bit 
of  money.  But  the  money  I  hoped  to  leave  you  is  all 
gone.  What  I  feel  most  is  that  I'm  leaving  you  and 
17 


480  ESTHER    WATERS 

your  motber  as  badly  off  as  she  was  when  I  married 
her."     He  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  Esther  said — 

"What  is  the  good  of  talking  of  these  things,  weak- 
ening yourself  for  nothing?" 

"I  must  speak,  Esther.  I  should  die  happy  if  I  knew 
how  you  and  the  boy  was  going  to  live.  You'll  have 
to  go  out  and  work  for  him  as  you  did  before.  It  will 
be  like  beginning  it  all  again." 

The  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks;  he  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands  and  sobbed,  until  the  sobbing  brought  on 
a  fit  of  coughing.  Suddenly  his  mouth  filled  with 
blood.  Jack  went  for  the  doctor,  and  all  remedies 
were  tried  without  avail.  "There  is  one  more 
remedy,"  the  doctor  said,  "and  if  that  fails  you  must 
prepare  for  the  worst. ' '  But  this  last  remedy  proved 
successful,  and  the  haemorrhage  was  stopped,  and  Wil- 
liam was  undressed  and  put  to  bed.  The  doctor  said, 
"He  mustn't  get  up  to-morrow. " 

"You  lie  in  bed  to-morrow,  and  try  to  get  up  your 
strength.     You've  overdone  yourself  to-day." 

She  had  drawn  his  bed  into  the  warmest  corner, 
close  b}^  the  fire,  and  had  made  up  for  herself  a  sort  of 
bed  by  the  window,  where  she  might  doze  a  bit,  for  she 
did  not  expect  to  get  much  sleep.  She  would  have  to 
be  up  and  dovm  many  times  to  settle  his  pillows  and 
give  him  milk  or  a  little  weak  brandy-and-water. 

Night  wore  away,  the  morning  grew  into  day,  and 
about  twelve  o'clock  he  insisted  on  getting  up.  She 
tried  to  persuade  him,  but  he  said  he  could  not  stop  in 
bed;  and  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  ask  Mrs. 
Collins  to  help  her  dress  him.  They  placed  him  com- 
fortably in  a  chair.  The  cough  had  entirely  ceased 
and  he   seemed  better.      And  on   Saturday  night  he 


ESTHER     WATERS  481 

slept  better  than  he  had  done  for  a  long  while  and 
woke  up  on  Sunday  morning  refreshed  and  apparently 
much  stronger.  He  had  a  nice  bit  of  boiled  rabbit  for 
his  dinner.  He  didn't  speak  much;  Esther  fancied 
that  he  was  still  thinking  of  them.  When  the  after- 
noon waned,  about  four  o'clock,  he  called  Jack;  he 
told  him  to  sit  in  the  light  where  he  could  see  him, 
and  he  looked  at  his  son  with  such  wistful  eyes.  These 
farewells  were  very  sad,  and  Esther  had  to  turn  aside 
to  hide  her  tears. 

"I  should  have  liked  to  have  seen  you  a  man,  Jack. " 

''Don't  speak  like  that— I  can't  bear  it,"  said  the 
poor  boy,  bursting  into  tears.  "Perhaps  you  won't 
die  yet." 

"Yes,  Jack;  I'm  wore  out.  I  can  feel,"  he  said, 
pointing  to  his  chest,  "that  there  is  nothing  here  to 
live  upon.   ...   It  is  the  punishment  come  upon  me." 

"Punishment  for  what,  father?" 

"I  wasn't  always  good  to  your  mother,  Jack." 

"If  to  please  me,  William,  you'll  say  no  more." 

"The  boy  ought  to  know;  it  will  be  a  lesson  for  him, 
and  it  weighs  upon  my  heart." 

"I  don't  want  my  boy  to  hear  anything  bad  about 
his  father,  and  I  forbid  him  to  listen." 

The  conversation  paused,  and  soon  after  William 
said  that  his  strength  was  going  from  him,  and  that  he 
would  like  to  go  back  to  bed.  Esther  helped  him  off 
with  his  clothes,  and  together  she  and  Jack  lifted  him 
into  bed.  He  sat  up  looking  at  them  with  wistful, 
dying  eyes. 

"It  is  hard  to  part  from  you,"  he  said.  "If  Chas- 
uble had  won  we  would  have  all  gone  to  Egypt.  I 
could  have  lived  out  there. ' ' 


482  ESTHER     WATERS 

"You  must  speak  of  them  things  no  more.  We  all 
must  obey  God's  will."  Esther  dropped  on  her 
knees;  she  drew  Jack  down  beside  her,  and  William 
asked  Jack  to  read  something  from  the  Bible.  Jack 
read  where  he  first  opened  the  book,  and  when  he  had 
finished  William  said  that  he  liked  to  listen.  Jack's 
voice  sounded  to  him  like  heaven. 

About  eight  o'clock  William  bade  his  son  good- 
night. 

"Good-night,  my  boy;  perhaps  we  shan't  see  each 
other  again.     This  may  be  my  last  night." 

"I  won't  leave  you,  father." 

"No,  my  boy,  go  to  your  bed.  I  feel  I'd  like  to  be 
alone  with  mother."  The  voice  sank  almost  to  a 
whisper. 

"You'll  remember  what  you  promised  me  about 
racing.  ...  Be  good  to  your  mother — she's  the  best 
mother  a  son  ever  had." 

"I'll  work  for  mother,  father,  I'll  work  for  her." 

"You're  too  young,  my  son,  but  when  you're  older 
I  hope  you'll  work  for  her.  She  worked  for  you.  .  .  . 
Good-bye,  my  boy." 

The  dying  man  sweated  profusely,  and  Esther  wiped 
his  face  from  time  to  time.  Mrs.  Collins  came  in. 
She  had  a  large  tin  candlestick  in  her  hand  in  which 
there  was  a  fragment  of  candle  end.  He  motioned  to 
her  to  put  it  aside.  She  put  it  on  the  table  out  of  the 
way  of  his  eyes. 

"You'll  help  Esther  to  lay  me  out.  .  .  .  I  don't  want 
any  one  else.     I  don't  like  the  other  woman. " 

"Esther  and  me  will  lay  you  out,  make  your  mind 
easy;  none  but  we  two  shall  touch  you." 

Once  more  Esther  wiped  his  forehead,  and  he  signed 


ESTHER     WATERS  483 

to  her  how  he  wished  the  bed-clothes  to  be  arranged, 
for  he  could  no  longer  speak.  Mrs.  Collins  whispered 
to  Esther  that  she  did  not  think  that  the  end  could  be 
far  off,  and  compelled  by  a  morbid  sort  of  curiosity  she 
took  a  chair  and  sat  down.  Esther  wiped  away  the 
little  drops  of  sweat  as  they  came  upon  his  forehead ; 
his  chest  and  throat  had  to  be  wiped  also,  for  they  too 
were  full  of  sweat.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  dark- 
ness and  he  moved  his  hand  restlessly,  and  Esther 
always  understood  what  he  wanted.  She  gave  him  a 
little  brandy-and- water,  and  when  he  could  not  take  it 
from  the  glass  she  gave  it  to  him  with  a  spoon. 

The  silence  grew  more  solemn,  and  the  clock  on  the 
mantelpiece  striking  ten  sharp  strokes  did  not  inter- 
rupt it ;  and  then,  as  Esther  turned  from  the  bedside 
for  the  brandy,  Mrs.  Collins 's  candle  spluttered  and 
went  out ;  a  little  thread  of  smoke  evaporated,  leaving 
only  a  morsel  of  blackened  wick ;  the  flame  had  disap- 
peared for  ever,  gone  as  if  it  had  never  been,  and 
Esther  saw  darkness  where  there  had  been  a  light. 
Then  she  heard  Mrs.  Collins  say — 

"I  think  it  is  all  over,  dear." 

The  profile  on  the  pillow  seemed  very  little. 

"Hold  up  his  head,  so  that  if  there  is  any  breath  it 
may  come  on  the  glass." 

"He's  dead,  right  enough.  You  see,  dear,  there's 
not  a  trace  of  breath  on  the  glass." 

"I'd  like  to  say  a  prayer.  Will  you  say  a  prayer 
with  me?" 

"Yes,  I  feel  as  if  I  should  like  to  myself;  it  eases 
the  heart  wonderful.'* 


XLV. 

p  She  stood  on  the  platform  watching  the  receding 
train.  A  few  bushes  hid  the  curve  of  the  line;  the 
white  vapour  rose  above  them,  evaporating  in  the 
grey  evening.  A  moment  more  and  the  last  carriage 
would  pass  out  of  sight.  The  white  gates  swung 
slowly  forward  and  closed  over  the  line. 

An  oblong  box  painted  reddish  brown  lay  on  the 
seat  beside  her.  A  woman  of  seven  or  eight  and 
thirty,  stout  and  strongly  built,  short  arms  and  hard- 
worked  hands,  dressed  in  dingy  black  skirt  and  a 
threadbare  jacket  too  thin  for  the  dampness  of  a 
November  day.  Her  face  was  a  blunt  outline,  and 
the  grey  eyes  reflected  all  the  natural  prose  of  the 
i  Saxon. 
Cl^  The  porter  told  her  that  he  would  try  to  send  her 
box  up  to  Woodview  to-morrow.  .  .  .  That  was  the 
way  to  Woodview,  right  up  the  lane.  She  could  not 
miss  it.  She  would  find  the  lodge  gate  behind  that 
clump  of  trees.  And  thinking  how  she  could  get  her 
box  to  Woodview  that  evening,  she  looked  at  the 
barren  strip  of  country  lying  between  the  downs  and 
the  shingle  beach.  The  little  town  clamped  about  its 
deserted  harbour  seemed  more  than  ever  like  falling 
to  pieces  like  a  derelict  vessel,  and  when  Esther 
passed  over  the  level  crossing  she  noticed  that  the  line 
of  little  villas  had  not  increased ;  they  were  as  she  had 
left  them  eighteen  years  ago,  laurels,  iron  railing, 
antimacassars.     It  was  about  eighteen  years  ago,  on  a 

484 


ESTHER     WATERS  485 

beautiful  June  day,  that  she  had  passed  up  this  lane 
for  the  first  time.  At  the  very  spot  she  was  now  pass- 
ing she  had  stopped  to  wonder  if  she  would  be  able  to 
keep  the  place  of  kitchen-maid.  She  remembered 
regretting  that  she  had  not  a  new  drcoS;  she  had  hoped 
to  be  able  to  brighten  up  the  best  of  her  cotton  prints 
with  a  bit  of  red  ribbon.  The  sun  was  shining,  and 
she  had  met  William  leaning  over  the  paling  in  the 
avenue  smoking  his  pipe.  Eighteen  years  had  gone 
by,  eighteen  years  of  labour,  suffering,  disappoint- 
ment. A  great  deal  had  happened,  so  much  that  she 
could  not  remember  it  all.  The  situations  she  had 
been  in ;  her  life  with  that  dear  good  soul.  Miss  Rice, 
then  Fred  Parsons,  then  William  again ;  her  marriage, 
the  life  in  the  public-house,  money  lost  and  money 
won,  heart-breakings,  death,  everything  that  could 
happen  had  happened  to  her.  Now  it  all  seemed  like 
a  dream.  But  her  boy  remained  to  her.  She  had 
brought  up  her  boy,  thank  God,  she  had  been  able  to 
do  that.  But  how  had  she  done  it?  How  often  had 
she  found  herself  within  sight  of  the  workhouse?  The 
last  time  was  no  later  than  last  week.  Last  week  it 
had  seemed  to  her  that  she  would  have  to  accept  the 
workhouse.  But  she  had  escaped,  and  now  here  she 
was  back  at  the  very  point  from  which  she  started, 
going  back  to  Woodview,  going  back  to  Mrs.  Barfield's) 
service.  ^,_  "' 

William's  illness  and  his  funeral  had  taken  Esther's 
last  few  pounds  away  from  her,  and  when  she  and 
Jack  came  back  from  the  cemetery  she  found  that  she 
had  broken  into  her  last  sovereign.  She  clasped  him 
to  her  bosom — he  was  a  tall  boy  of  fifteen — and  burst 
into  tears.     But  she  did  not  tell  him  what  she  was  cry- 


486  ESTHER    WATERS 

ing  for.  She  did  not  say,  "God  only  knows  how  we 
shall  find  bread  to  eat  next  week;"  she  merely  said, 
wiping-  away  her  tears,  "We  can't  afford  to  live  here 
any  longer.  It's  too  expensive  for  us  now  that 
father's  gone."  And  they  went  to  live  in  a  slum  for 
three-and-sixpence  a  week  If  she  had  been  alone  in 
the  world  she  would  have  gone  into  a  situation,  but 
she  could  not  leave  the  boy,  and  so  she  had  to  look 
out  for  charing.  It  was  hard  to  have  to  come  down  to 
this,  particularly  when  she  remembered  that  she  had 
had  a  house  and  a  servant  of  her  own ;  but  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  look  out  for  some  charing,  and 
get  along  as  best  she  could  until  Jack  was  able  to  look 
after  himself.  But  the  various  scrubbings  and  general 
cleaning  that  had  come  her  way  had  been  so  badly 
paid  that  she  soon  found  that  she  could  not  make  both 
ends  meet.  She  would  have  to  leave  her  boy  and  go 
out  as  a  general  servant  And  as  her  necessities  were 
pressing,  she  accepted  a  situation  in  a  coffee-shop  in 
the  London  Road.  She  would  give  all  her  wages  to 
Jack,  seven  shillings  a  week,  and  he  would  have  to 
live  on  that.  So  long  as  she  had  her  health  she  did 
not  mind. 

It  was  a  squat  brick  building  with  four  windows 
that  looked  down  on  the  pavement  with  a  short- 
sighted stare.  On  each  window  was  written  in  letters 
of  white  enamel,  "Well-aired  beds."  Aboard  nailed 
to  a  post  by  the  side-door  announced  that  tea  and 
coffee  were  always  ready.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
sign  was  an  upholsterer's,  and  the  vulgar  brightness  of 
the  Brussels  carpets  seemed  in  keeping  with  the  slop- 
like appearance  of  the  coffee-house. 

Sometimes  a    workman    came    in  the    morning;    a 


ESTHER    WATERS  487 

couple  more  might  come  in  about  dinner-time. 
Sometimes  they  took  rashers  and  bits  of  steak  out  of 
their  pockets. 

"Won't  you  cook  this  for  me,  missis?" 

But  it  was  not  until  about  nine  in  the  evening  that 
the  real  business  of  the  house  began,  and  it  continued 
till  one,  when  the  last  straggler  knocked  for  admit- 
tance. The  house  lived  on  its  beds.  The  best  rooms 
were  sometimes  let  for  eight  shillings  a  night,  and 
there  were  four  beds  which  were  let  at  fourpence  a 
night  in  the  cellar  under  the  area  where  Esther  stood 
by  the  great  copper  washing  sheets,  blankets,  and 
counterpanes,  when  she  was  not  cleaning  the  rooms 
upstairs.  There  was  a  double-bedded  room  under- 
neath the  kitchen,  and  over  the  landings,  wherever  a 
space  could  be  found,  the  landlord,  who  was  clever  at 
carpentering  work,  had  fitted  up  some  sort  of  closet 
place  that  could  be  let  as  a  bedroom.  The  house  was 
a  honeycomb.  The  landlord  slept  under  the  roof,  and 
a  corner  had  been  found  for  his  housekeeper,  a  hand- 
some young  woman,  at  the  end  of  the  passage.  Esther 
and  the  children — the  landlord  was  a  widower — slept 
in  the  coffee-room  upon  planks  laid  across  the  tops  of 
the  high  backs  of  the  benches  where  the  customers 
mealed.  Mattresses  and  bedding  were  laid  on  these 
planks  and  the  sleepers  lay,  their  faces  hardly  two  feet 
from  the  ceiling.  Esther  slept  with  the  baby,  a  little 
boy  of  five ;  the  two  big  boys  slept  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room  by  the  front  door.  The  eldest  was  about 
fifteen,  but  he  w^as  only  half-witted;  and  he  helped  in 
the  housework,  and  could  turn  down  the  beds  and  see 
quicker  than  any  one  if  the  occupant  had  stolen  sheet 
or    blanket.       Esther    always    remembered    how    he 


488  ESTHER    WATERS 

would  raise  himself  up  in  bed  in  the  early  morning-, 
rub  the  glass,  and  light  a  candle  so  that  he  could  be 
seen  from  below.  He  shook  his  head  if  every  bed  was 
occupied,  or  signed  with  his  fingers  the  prices  of  the 
beds  if  they  had  any  to  let. 

The  landlord  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  with  long  features 
and  hair  turning  grey.  He  was  very  quiet,  and 
Esther  was  surprised  one  night  at  the  abruptness  with 
which  he  stopped  a  couple  who  were  going  upstairs. 

*'Is  that  your  wife?"  he  said. 

*'Yes,  she's  my  wife  all  right.** 

"She  don't  look  very  old." 

**She's  older  than  she  looks." 

Then  he  said,  half  to  Esther,  half  to  his  house- 
keeper, that  it  was  hard  to  know  what  to  do.  If  you 
asked  them  for  their  marriage  certificates  they'd  be 
sure  to  show  you  something.  The  housekeeper 
answered  that  they  paid  well,  and  that  was  the  prin- 
cipal thing.  But  when  an  attempt  was  made  to  steal 
the  bed-clothes  the  landlord  and  his  housekeeper  were 
more  severe.  As  Esther  was  about  to  let  a  most 
respectable  woman  out  of  the  front  door,  the  idiot  boy 
called  down  the  stairs,  ''Stop  her!  There's  a  sheet 
missing." 

'*Oh,  what  in  the  world  is  all  this?  I  haven't  got 
your  sheet.     Pray  let  me  pass;  I'm  in  a  hurry.'* 

*'I  can't  let  you  pass  until  the  sheet  is  found.'* 

'* You'll  find  it  upstairs  under  the  bed.  It's  got 
mislaid.     I'm  in  a  hurry." 

*'Call  in  the  police,"  shouted  the  idiot  boy. 

"You'd  better  come  upstairs  and  help  me  to  find  the* 
sheet,"  said  Esther. 

The  woman  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  walked 


ESTHER     WATERS  489 

Up  in  front  of  Esther.  When  they  were  in  the  bed- 
room she  shook  out  her  petticoats,  and  the  sheet  fell  on 
the  floor. 

* 'There,  now,"  said  Esther,  **a  nice  botheration 
you'd  've  got  me  into.     I  should  've  had  to  pay  for  it. ' ' 

*'0h,  I  could  pay  for  it;  it  was  only  because  I'm  not 
very  well  off  at  present. " 

"Yes,  you  zvi//  pay  for  it  if  you  don't  take  care," 
said  Esther. 

It  was  very  soon  after  that  Esther  had  her  mother's 
books  stolen  from  her.  They  had  not  been  doing 
much  business,  and  she  had  been  put  to  sleep  in  one  of 
the  bedrooms.  The  room  was  suddenly  wanted,  and 
she  had  no  time  to  move  all  her  things,  and  when  she 
went  to  make  up  the  room  she  found  that  her  mother's 
books  and  a  pair  of  jet  earrings  that  Fred  had  given 
her  had  been  stolen.  She  could  do  nothing;  the 
couple  who  had  occupied  the  room  were  far  away  by 
this  time.  There  was  no  hope  of  ever  recovering  her 
books  and  earrings,  and  the  loss  of  these  things  caused 
her  a  great  deal  of  unhappiness.  The  only  little  treasure 
she  possessed  were  those  earrings;  now  they  were 
gone,  she  realised  how  utterly  alone  she  was  in  the 
world.  If  her  health  were  to  break  down  to-morrow 
she  would  have  to  go  to  the  workhouse.  What  would 
become  of  her  boy?  She  was  afraid  to  think;  thinking 
did  no  good.  She  must  not  think,  but  must  just  work 
on,  washing  the  bedclothes  until  she  could  wash  no 
longer.  Wash,  wash,  all  the  week  long;  and  it  was 
only  by  working  on  till  one  o'clock  in  the  morning 
that  she  sometimes  managed  to  get  the  Sabbath  free 
from  washing.  Never,  not  even  in  the  house  in 
Chelsea,  had  she  had  such  hard  work,  and  she  was  not 


490  ESTHER    WATERS 

as  strong  now  as  slie  was  then.  But  her  courage  did 
not  give  way  until  one  Sunday  Jack  came  to  tell  her 
that  the  people  who  employed  him  had  sold  their 
business. 

Then  a  strange  weakness  came  over  her.  She 
thought  of  the  endless  week  of  work  that  awaited  her 
in  the  cellar,  the  great  copper  on  the  fire,  the  heaps  of 
soiled  linen  in  the  corner,  the  steam  rising  from  the 
wash-tub,  and  she  felt  she  had  not  sufficient  strength 
to  get  through  another  week  of  such  work.  She 
looked  at  her  son  with  despair  in  her  eyes.  She  had 
whispered  to  him  as  he  lay  asleep  under  her  shawl,  a 
tiny  infant,  "There  is  nothing  for  us,  my  poor  boy,  but 
the  workhouse,"  and  the  same  thought  rose  up  in  her 
mind  as  she  looked  at  him,  a  tall  lad  with  large  grey 
eyes  and  dark  curling  hair.  But  she  did  not  trouble 
him  with  her  despair.     She  merely  said— 

"I  don't  know  how  we  shall  pull  through,  Jack. 
God  will  help  us. ' ' 

"You're  washing  too  hard,  mother.  You're  wasting 
away.   Do  you  know  no  one,  mother,  who  could  help  us?" 

She  looked  at  Jack  fixedly,  and  she  thought  of  Mrs. 
Barfield.  Mrs.  Barfield  might  be  away  in  the  South 
with  her  daughter.  If  she  were  at  Woodview  Esther 
felt  sure  that  she  would  not  refuse  to  help  her.  So 
Jack  wrote  at  Esther's  dictation,  and  before  they 
expected  an  answer,  a  letter  came  from  Mrs.  Barfield 
saying  that  she  remembered  Esther  perfectly  well. 
She  had  just  returned  from  the  South.  She  was  all 
alone  at  Woodview,  and  wanted  a  servant.  Esther 
could  come  and  take  the  place  if  she  liked.  She 
enclosed  five  pounds,  and  hoped  that  the  money  would 
enable  Esther  to  leave  London  at  once. 


ESTHER     WATERS  49^ 

But  this  returning  to  former  conditions  filled  Esther 
with  strange  trouble.  Her  heart  beat  as  she  recog- 
nised the  spire  of  the  church  between  the  trees,  and 
the  undulating  line  of  downs  behind  the  trees  awak- 
ened painful  recollections.  She  knew  the  w^hite  gate 
was  somewhere  in  this  plantation,  but  could  not 
remember  its  exact  position;  and  she  took  the  road  to 
the  left  instead  of  taking  the  road  to  the  right,  and 
had  to  retrace  her  steps.  The  gate  had  fallen  from  its 
hinge,  and  she  had  some  difficulty  in  opening  it.  The 
lodge  where  the  blind  gatekeeper  used  to  play  the  flute 
was  closed;  the  park  paling  had  not  been  kept  in 
repair;  wandering  sheep  and  cattle  had  worn  away  the 
great  holly  hedge ;  and  Esther  noticed  that  in  falling 
an  elm  had  broken  through  the  garden  wall. 

When  she  arrived  at  the  iron  gate  under  the  bunched 
evergreens,  her  steps  paused.  For  this  was  where  she 
had  met  William  for  the  first  time.  He  had  taken  her 
through  the  stables  and  pointed  out  to  her  Silver 
Braid's  box.  She  remembered  the  horses  going  to  the 
downs,  horses  coming  from  the  downs — stabling  and 
the  sound  of  hoofs  everywhere.  But  now  silence. 
She  could  see  that  many  a  roof  had  fallen,  and  that 
ruins  of  outhouses  filled  the  yard.  She  remembered 
the  kitchen  windows,  bright  in  the  setting  sun,  and  the 
white-capped  serv^ants  moving  about  the  great  white 
table.  But  now  the  shutters  were  up,  nowhere  a 
light ;  the  knocker  had  disappeared  from  the  door,  and 
she  asked  herself  how  she  was  to  get  in.  She  even 
felt  afraid.  .  .  .  Supposing  she  should  not  find  Mrs. 
Barfield.  She  made  her  way  through  the  shrubbery, 
tripping  over  fallen  branches  and  trunks  of  trees; 
rooks  rose  out  of  the  evergreens  with  a  great  clatter, 


492  ESTHER    WATERS 

her  heart  stood  still,  and  she  hardly  dared  to  tear 
herself  through  the  mass  of  underwood.  At  last  she 
gained  the  lawn,  and,  still  very  frightened,  sought  for 
the  bell.  The  socket  plate  hung  loose  on  the  wire, 
and  only  a  faint  tinkle  came  through  the  solitude  of 
the  empty  house. 

At  last  footsteps  and  a  light ;  the  chained  door  was 
opened  a  little,  and  a  voice  asked  who  it  was.  Esther 
explained ;  the  door  was  opened,  and  she  stood  face  to 
face  with  her  old  mistress.  Mrs.  Barfield  stood,  hold- 
ing the  candle  high,  so  that  she  could  see  Esther. 
Esther  knew  her  at  once.  She  had  not  changed  very 
much.  She  kept  her  beautiful  white  teeth  and  her 
girlish  smile;  the  pointed,  vixen-like  face  had  not 
altered  in  outline,  but  the  reddish  hair  was  so  thin 
that  it  had  to  be  parted  on  the  side  and  drawn  over 
the  skull;  her  figure  was  delicate  and  sprightly  as 
ever.  Esther  noticed  all  this,  and  Mrs.  Barfield 
noticed  that  Esther  had  grown  stouter.  Her  face  was 
still  pleasant  to  see,  for  it  kept  that  look  of  blunt,  hon- 
est nature  which  had  always  been  its  charm.  She  was 
now  the  thick-set  working  woman  of  forty,  and  she 
stood  holding  the  hem  of  her  jacket  in  her  rough 
hands. 

"We'd  better  put  the  chain  up,  for  I'm  alone  in  the 
house." 

"Aren't  you  afraid,  ma'am?" 

"A  little,  but  there's  nothing  to  steal.  I  asked  the 
policeman  to  keep  a  look-out.     Come  into  the  library. " 

There  was  the  round  table,  the  little  green  sofa,  the 
piano,  the  parrot's  cage,  and  the  yellow-painted 
presses;  and  it  seemed  only  a  little  while  since  she  had 
been  summoned  to  this  room,  since  she  had  stood  fac- 


ESTHER    WATERS  493 

ing  her  mistress,  her  confession  on  her  lips.  It 
seemed  like  yesterday,  and  yet  seventeen  years  and 
more  had  gone  by.  And  all  these  years  were  now  a 
sort  of  a  blur  in  her  mind — a  dream,  the  connecting 
links  of  which  were  gone,  and  she  stood  face  to  face 
with  her  old  mistress  in  the  old  room. 

"You've  had  a  cold  journey,  Esther;  you'd  like 
some  tea?" 

"Oh,  don't  trouble,  ma'am." 

"It's  no  trouble;  I  should  like  some  myself.  The 
fire's  out  in  the  kitchen.     We  can  boil  the  kettle  here. " 

They  went  through  the  baize  door  into  the  long 
passage.  Mrs.  Barfield  told  Esther  where  was  the 
pantry,  the  kitchen,  and  the  larder.  Esther  answered 
that  she  remembered  quite  well,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
not  a  little  strange  that  she  should  know  these  things. 
Mrs.  Barfield  said — 

"So  you  haven't  forgotten  Wood  view,  Esther?" 

"No,  ma'am.  It  seems  like  yesterday.  .  .  .  But 
I'm  afraid  the  damp  has  got  into  the  kitchen,  ma'am, 
the  range  is  that  neglected ' ' 

"Ah,  Woodview  isn't  what  it  was." 

Mrs.  Barfield  told  how  she  had  buried  her  husband 
in  the  old  village  church.  She  had  taken  her  daughter 
to  Egypt ;  she  had  dwindled  there  till  there  was  little 
more  than  a  skeleton  to  lay  in  the  grave. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  know  how  it  takes  them,  inch  by 
inch.     My  husband  died  of  consumption." 

They  sat  talking  for  hours.  One  thing  led  to 
another,  and  Esther  gradually  told  Mrs.  Barfield  the 
story  of  her  life  from  the  day  they  bade  each  other 
good-bye  in  the  room  they  were  now  sitting  in. 

*'It  is  quite  a  romance,  Esther." 


494  ESTHER    WATERS 

**It  was  a  hard  fight,  and  it  isn't  over  yet,  ma'am. 
It  won't  be  over  until  I  see  him  settled  in  some 
regular  work.     I  hope  I  shall  live  to  see  him  settled. ' ' 

They  sat  over  the  fire  a  long  time  without  speaking. 
Mrs.  Barfield  said — 

"It  must  be  getting  on  for  bedtime." 

"I  suppose  it  must,  ma'am." 

She  asked  if  she  should  sleep  in  the  room  she  had 
once  shared  with  Margaret  Gale.  Mrs.  Barfield 
answered  with  a  sigh  that  as  all  the  bedrooms  were 
empty  Esther  had  better  sleep  in  the  room  next  to 
hers. 


XLVI. 

Esther  seemed  to  have  quite  naturally  accepted 
Woodview  as  a  final  stage.  Any  further  change  in  her 
life  she  did  not  seem  to  regard  as  possible  or  desir- 
able. One  of  these  days  her  boy  would  get  settled ; 
he  would  come  down  now  and  again  to  see  her.  She 
did  not  want  any  more  than  that.  No,  she  did  not  find 
the  place  lonely.  A  young  girl  might,  but  she  was  no 
longer  a  young  girl;  she  had  her  work  to  do,  and 
when  it  was  done  she  was  glad  to  sit  down  to  rest. 

And,  dressed  in  long  cloaks,  the  women  went  for 
walks  together;  sometimes  they  went  up  the  hill, 
sometimes  into  Southwick  to  make  some  little  pur- 
chases. On  Sundays  they  walked  to  Beeding  to  attend 
meeting.  And  they  came  home  along  the  winter 
roads,  the  peace  and  happiness  of  prayer  upon  their 
faces,  holding  their  skirts  out  of  the  mud,  unashamed 
of  their  common  boots.  They  made  no  acquaintances, 
seeming  to  find  in  each  other  all  necessary  companion- 
ship. Their  heads  bent  a  little  forward,  they  trudged 
home,  talking  of  what  they  were  in  the  habit  of  talk- 
ing, that  another  tree  had  been  blown  down,  that  Jack 
was  now  earning  good  money — ten  shillings  a  week. 
Esther  hoped  it  would  last.  Or  else  Esther  told  her  , 
mistress  that  she  had  heard  that  one  of '^Ir.  Arthur's 
horses  had  won  a  race.  He  lived  in  the  North  of  Eng- 
land, where  he  had  a  small  training  stable,  and  his 
mother  never  heard  of  him  except  through  the  sporting 
papers.     *'He  hasn't  been  here  for  four  years,"  Mrs. 

495 


496  ESTHER    WATERS 

Barfield  said;  "he  hates  the  place;  he  wouldn't  care 
if  I  were  to  burn  it  down  to-morrow.  .  .  .  However,  I 
do  the  best  I  can,  hoping  that  one  day  he'll  marry  and 
come  and  live  here." 

Mr.  Arthur — that  was  how  Mrs.  Barfield  and  Esther 
spoke  of  him — did  not  draw  any  income  from  the 
estate.  The  rents  only  sufficed  to  pay  the  charges  and 
the  widow's  jointure.  All  the  land  was  let;  the 
house  he  had  tried  to  let,  but  it  had  been  found  impos- 
sible to  find  a  tenant,  unless  Mr.  Arthur  would  expend 
some  considerable  sum  in  putting  the  house  and  gounds 
into  a  state  of  proper  repair.  This  he  did  not  care  to 
do ;  he  said  that  he  found  race-horses  a  more  profitable 
speculation.  Besides,  even  the  park  had  been  let  on 
lease;  nothing  remained  to  him  but  the  house  and 
lawn  and  garden;  he  could  no  longer  gallop  a  horse 
on  the  hill  without  somebody's  leave,  so  he  didn't  care 
what  became  of  the  place.  His  mother  might  go  on 
living  there,  keeping  things  together  as  she  called  it ; 
he  did  not  mind  what  she  did  as  long  as  she  didn't 
bother  him.  So  did  he  express  himself  regarding 
Woodview  on  the  rare  occasion  of  his  visits,  and  when 
he  troubled  to  answer  his  mother's  letters.  Mrs.  Bar- 
field,  whose  thoughts  were  limited  to  the  estate,  was 
pained  by  his  indifference;  she  gradually  ceased  to 
consult  him,  and  when  Beeding  was  too  far  for  her  to 
walk  she  had  the  furniture  removed  from  the  drawing- 
room  and  a  long  deal  table  placed  there  instead.  She 
had  not  asked  herself  if  Arthur  would  object  to  her 
inviting  a  few  brethren  of  the  neighbourhood  to  her 
house  for  meeting,  or  publishing  the  meetings  by 
notices  posted  on  the  lodge  gate. 

One  day  Mrs.  Barfield  and  Esther  were  walking  in 


ESTHER     WATERS  497 

the  avenue,  when,  to  their  surprise,  they  saw  Mr. 
Arthur  open  the  white  gate  and  come  through.  The 
mother  hastened  forward  to  meet  her  son,  but  paused, 
dismayed  by  the  anger  that  looked  out  of  his  eyes. 
He  did  not  like  the  notices,  and  she  was  sorry ,that  he 
was  annoyed.  She  didn't  think  that  he  would  mind 
them,  and  she  hastened  by  his  side,  pleading  her 
excuses.  But  to  her  great  sorrow  Arthur  did  not 
seem  to  be  able  to  overcome  his  annoyance.  He 
refused  to  listen,  and  continued  his  reproaches,  saying 
the  things  that  he  knew  would  most  pain  her. 

He  did  not  care  whether  the  trees  stood  or  fell, 
whether  the  cement  remained  upon  the  walls  or 
dropped  from  them ;  he  didn't  draw  a  penny  of  income 
from  the  place,  and  did  not  care  a  damn  what  became 
of  it.  He  allowed  her  to  live  there,  she  got  her 
jointure  out  of  the  property,  and  he  didn't  want  to 
interfere  with  her,  but  what  he  could  not  stand  was 
the  snuffy  little  folk  from  the  town  coming  round  his 
house.  The  Barfields  at  least  were  county,  and  he 
wished  Woodview  to  remain  county  as  long  as  the 
walls  held  together.  He  wasn't  a  bit  ashamed  of  all 
this  ruin.  You  could  receive  the  Prince  of  Wales  in  a 
ruin,  but  he  wouldn't  care  to  ask  him  into  a  dissenting 
chapel.  Mrs.  Bar  field  answered  that  she  didn't  see 
how  the  mere  assembling  of  a  few  friends  in  prayer 
could  disgrace  a  house.  She  did  not  know  that  he 
objected  to  her  asking  them.  She  would  not  ask  them 
any  more.  The  only  thing  was  that  there  was  no 
place  nearer  than  Beeding^where  they  could  meet,  and 
she  could  no  longer  walk  so  far.  She  would  have  to 
give  up  meeting. 

*'It  seems  to  me  a  strange  taste  to  want  to  kneel 


498  ESTHER    WATERS 

down  with  a  lot  of  little  shop-keepers.  ...  Is  this 
where  you  kneel?"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  long  deal 
table.     "The  place  is  a  regular  little  Bethel." 

"Our  Lord  said  that  when  a  number  should  gather 
together  for  prayer  that  He  would  be  among  them. 
Those  are  true  words,  and  as  we  get  old  we  feel  more 
and  more  the  want  of  this  communion  of  spirit.  It  is 
only  then  that  we  feel  that  we're  really  with  God.  .  .  . 
The  folk  that  you  despise  are  equal  in  His  sight. 
And  living  here  alone,  what  should  I  be  without 
prayer?  and  Esther,  after  her  life  of  trouble  and 
strife,  what  would  she  be  without  prayer?  ...  It  is 
our  consolation. ' ' 

"I  think  one  should  choose  one's  company  for 
prayer  as  for  everything  else.  Besides,  what  do  you 
get  out  of  it?     Miracles  don't  happen  nowadays. " 

"You're  very  young,  Arthur,  and  you  cannot  feel 
the  want  of  prayer  as  we  do — two  old  women  living  in 
this  lonely  house.  As  age  and  solitude  overtake  us, 
the  realities  of  life  float  away  and  we  become  more  and 
more  sensible  to  the  mystery  which  surrounds  us. 
And  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  gave  us  love  and  prayer  so 
that  we  might  see  a  little  further." 

An  expression  of  great  beauty  came  upon  her  face, 
that  unconscious  resignation  which,  like  the  twilight, 
hallows  and  transforms.  In  such  moments  the 
humblest  hearts  are  at  one  with  nature,  and  speak  out 
of  the  eternal  wisdom  of  things.  So  even  this  com- 
mon racing  man  was  touched,  and  he  said — 

"I'm  sorry  if  I  said  anything  to  hurt  your  religious 
feelings. ' ' 

Mrs.  Barfield  did  not  answer. 

"Do  you  not  accept  my  apologies,  mother?'* 


ESTHER    WATERS  499 

**My  dear  boy,  what  do  I  care  for  your  apologies; 
what  are  they  to  me?  All  I  think  of  now  is  your  con- 
version to  Christ.  Nothing  else  matters.  I  shall 
alwa5''S  pray  for  that. 

"You  may  have  whom  you  like  up  here;  I  don't 
mind  if  it  makes  you  happy.  I'm  ashamed  of  myself. 
Don't  let's  say  any  more  about  it.  I'm  only  down  for 
the  day.     I'm  going  home  to-morrow." 

"Home,  Arthur!  this  is  your  home.  I  can't  bear  to 
hear  you  speak  of  any  other  place  as  your  home. 

"Well,  mother,  then  I  shall  say  that  I'm  going  back 
to  business  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Barfield  sighed. 


XLVII. 

Days,  weeks,  months  passed  away,  and  the  two 
women  came  to  live  more  and  more  like  friends  and 
less  like  mistress  and  maid.  Not  that  Esther  ever 
failed  to  use  the  respectful  "ma'am"  when  she 
addressed  her  mistress,  nor  did  they  ever  sit  down  to  a 
meal  at  the  same  table.  But  these  slight  social  dis- 
tinctions, which  habit  naturally  preserved,  and  which 
it  would  have  been  disagreeable  to  both  to  forego,  were 
no  check  on  the  intimacy  of  their  companionship.  In 
the  evening  they  sat  in  the  library  sewing,  or  Mrs. 
Barfield  read  aloud,  or  they  talked  of  their  sons.  On 
Sundays  they  had  their  meetings.  The  folk  came 
from  quite  a  distance,  and  sometimes  as  many  as  five- 
and-twenty  knelt  round  the  deal  table  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  Esther  felt  that  these  days  were  the 
happiest  of  her  life.  She  was  content  in  the  peaceful 
present,  and  she  knew  that  Mrs.  Barfield  would  not 
leave  her  unprovided  for.  She  was  almost  free  from 
anxiety.  But  Jack  did  not  seem  to  be  able  to  obtain 
regular  employment  in  London,  and  her  wages  were 
so  small  that  she  could  not  help  him  much.  So  the 
sight  of  his  handwriting  made  her  tremble,  and  she 
sometimes  did  not  show  the  letter  to  Mrs.  Barfield  for 
some  hours  after. 

One  Sunday  morning,  after  meeting,  as  the  two 
women  were  going  for  their  walk  up  the  hill,  Esther 
said — 

500 


ESTHER     WATERS  5°! 

"I've  a  letter  from  my  boy,  ma'am.  I  hope  it  is  to 
tell  me  that  he's  got  back  to  work." 

'*I'm  afraid  I  shan't  be  able  to  read  it,  Esther.  I 
haven't  my  glasses  with  me." 

"It  don't  matter,  ma'am — it'll  keep." 

"Give  it  to  me — his  writing  is  large  and  legible.     I 
think  I  can  read  it.     'My  dear  mother,  the  place  I  told 
you  of  in  my  last  letter  was  given  away,  so  I  must  go  I 
on  in  the  toy-shop  till  something  better  turns  up.     I  j 
only  get  six  shillings  a  week  and  my  tea,  and  can't  i 
quite  manage  on  that.'     Then  something — something  \ 
— 'pay  three  and  sixpence  a  week' — something — 'bed'   i 
— something — something. ' ' 

"I  know,  ma'am;  he  shares  abed  with  the  eldest 
boy." 

"Yes,  that's  it;  and  he  wants  to  know  if  you  can 
help  him.  'I  don't  like  to  trouble  you,  mother;  but  it 
is  hard  for  a  boy  to  get  his  living  in  London. '  " 

"But  I've  sent  him  all  my  money.  I  shan't  have 
any  till  next  quarter." 

"I'll  lend  you  some,  Esther.  We  can't  leave  the 
boy  to  starve.  He  can't  live  on  two  and  sixpence  a 
week." 

"You're  very  good,  ma'am;  but  I  don't  like  to 
take  your  money.  We  shan't  be  able  to  get  the 
garden  cleared  this  winter." 

"We  shall  manage  somehow,  Esther.  The  garden 
must  wait.  The  first  thing  to  do  is  to  see  that  your 
boy  doesn't  want  for  food." 

The  women  resumed  their  walk  up  the  hill.  When 
they  reached  the  top  Mrs.  Barfield  said — 

"I  haven't  heard  from  Mr.  Arthur  for  months.  I 
envy  you,    Esther,   those   letters    asking  for   a    little 


502  ESTHER    WATERS 

money.  What's  the  use  of  money  to  us  except  to  give 
it  to  our  children?  Helping  others,  that  is  the  only 
happiness." 

At  the  end  of  the  coombe,  under  the  shaws,  stood 
the  old  red-tiled  farmhouse  in  which  Mrs.  Barfield  had 
been  born.  Beyond  it,  downlands  rolled  on  and  on, 
reaching  half-way  up  the  northern  sky.  Mrs.  Barfield 
was  thinking  of  the  days  when  her  husband  used  to 
jump  off  his  cob  and  walk  beside  her  through  those 
gorse  patches  on  his  way  to  the  farmhouse.  She  had 
come  from  the  farmhouse  beneath  the  shaws  to  go  to 
live  in  an  Italian  house  sheltered  by  a  fringe  of  trees. 
That  was  her  adventure.  She  knew  it,  and  she  turned 
from  the  view  of  the  downs  to  the  view  of  the  sea. 
The  plantations  of  Woodview  touched  the  horizon, 
then  the  line  dipped,  and  between  the  top  branches  of 
a  row  of  elms  appeared  the  roofs  of  the  town.  Over  a 
long  spider-legged  bridge  a  train  wriggled  like  a  snake, 
the  bleak  river  flowed  into  the  harbour,  and  the 
shingle  banks  saved  the  low  land  from  inundation. 
Then  the  train  passed  behind  the  square,  dogmatic 
tower  of  the  village  church.  Her  husband  lay  beneath 
the  chancel ;  her  father,  mother,  all  her  relations,  lay 
in  the  churchyard.  She  would  go  there  in  a  few 
years.  .  .  .  Her  daughter  lay  far  away,  far  away  in 
Egy^pt.  Upon  this  downland  all  her  life  had  been 
passed,  all  her  life  except  the  few  months  she  had 
spent  by  her  daughter's  bedside  in  Egypt.  She  had 
come  from  that  coombe,  from  that  farmhouse  beneath 
the  shaws,  and  had  only  crossed  the  down. 

And  this  barren  landscape  meant  as  much  to  Esther 
as  to  her  mistress.  It  was  on  these  downs  that  she  had 
walked  with  William.     He  had  been  born  and  bred  on 


ESTHER     WATERS  503 

these  downs;  but  he  lay  far  away  in  Brompton 
Cemetery ;  it^was  she  who  had  come  back !  and  in  her 
simple  way  she  too  wondered  at  the  mystery  of 
destiny. 

As  they  descended  the  hill  Mrs.  Barfield  asked 
Esther  if  she  ever  heard  of  Fred  Parsons. 

"No,  ma'am,  I  don't  know  what's  become  of  him." 

"And  if  you  were  to  meet  him  again,  would  you 
care  to  marry  him?" 

"Marry  and  begin  life  over  again!  All  the  worry 
and  bother  over  again!  Why  should  I  marry? — all  I 
live  for  now  is  to  see  my  boy  settled  in  life. ' ' 

The  women  walked  on  in  silence,  passing  by  long 
ruins  of  stables,  coach-houses,  granaries,  rick-yards, 
all  in  ruin  and  decay.  The  women  paused  and  went 
towards  the  garden ;  and  removing  some  pieces  of  the 
broken  gate  they  entered  a  miniature  wilderness.  The 
espalier  apple-trees  had  disappeared  beneath  climb- 
ing weeds,  and  long  briars  had  shot  out  from  the 
bushes,  leaving  few  traces  of  the  former  walks — a 
dam.p,  dismal  place  that  the  birds  seemed  to  have 
abandoned.  Of  the  greenhouse  only  some  broken  glass 
and  a  black  broken  chimney  remained.  A  great  elm 
had  carried  away  a  large  portion  of  the  southern 
w^all,  and  under  the  dripping  trees  an  aged  peacock 
screamed  for  his  lost  mate. 

"I  don't  suppose  that  Jack  will  be  able  to  find  any 
more  paying  employment  this  winter.  We  must  send 
him  six  shillings  a  week;  that,  with  what  he  is  earning, 
will  make  twelve;  he'll  be  able  to  live  nicely  on  that. " 

"I  should  think  he  would  indeed.  But,  then,  what 
about  the  wages  of  them  who  was  to  have  cleared  the 
gardens  for  us?" 


504  ESTHER     WATERS 

"We  shan't  be  able  to  get  the  whole  garden  cleared, 
but  Jim  will  be  able  to  get  a  piece  ready  for  us  to  sow 
some  spring  vegetables,  not  a  large  piece,  but  enough 
for  us.  The  first  thing  to  do  will  be  to  cut  down  those 
apple-trees.  I'm  afraid  we  shall  have  to  cut  down 
that  walnut;  nothing  could  grow  beneath  it.  Did  any 
one  ever  see  such  a  mass  of  weed  and  briar?  Yet  it  is 
only  about  ten  years  since  we  left  Woodview,  and  the 
garden  was  let  run  to  waste.  Nature  does  not  take 
long,  a  few  years,  a  very  few  years." 


XLVIII. 

All  the  winter  the  north  wind  roamed  on  the  hills; 
many  trees  fell  in  the  park,  and  at  the  end  of  February 
Woodview  seemed  barer  and  more  desolate  than  ever ; 
broken  branches  littered  the  roadway,  and  the  tall 
trunks  showed  their  wounds.  The  women  sat  over 
their  fire  in  the  evening  listening  to  the  blast,  cogi- 
tating the  work  that  awaited  them  as  soon  as  the 
weather  showed  signs  of  breaking. 

Mrs.  Barfield  had  laid  by  a  few  pounds  during  the 
winter ;  and  the  day  that  Jim  cleared  out  the  first  piece 
of  espalier  trees  she  spent  entirely  in  the  garden, 
hardly  able  to  take  her  eyes  off  him.  But  the  pleasure 
of  the  day  was  in  a  measure  spoilt  for  her  by  the 
knowledge  that  on  that  day  her  son  was  riding  in  the 
great  steeple-chase.  She  was  full  of  fear  for  his 
safety ;  she  did  not  sleep  that  night,  and  hurried  down 
at  an  early  hour  to  the  garden  to  ask  Jim  for  the 
newspaper  which  she  had  told  him  to  bring  her.  He 
took  some  time  to  extract  the  paper  from  his  torn 
pocket. 

"He isn't  in  the  first  three,"  said  Mrs.  Barfield.  "I 
always  know  that  he's  safe  if  he's  in  the  first  three. 
We  must  turn  to  the  account  of  the  race  to  see  if  there 
were  any  accidents. ' ' 

She  turned  over  the  paper. 

''Thank  God,  he's  safe,"  she  said;  "his  horse  ran 
fourth." 

505 


5o6  ESTHER    WATERS 

*' You  worry  yourself  without  cause,  ma'am.  A  good 
rider  like  him  don't  meet  with  accidents." 

*'The  best  riders  are  often  killed,  Esther.  I  never 
have  an  easy  moment  when  I  hear  he's  going  to  ride  in 
these  races.  Supposing  one  day  I  were  to  read  that  he 
was  carried  back  on  a  shutter." 

"We  mustn't  let  our  thoughts  run  on  such  things, 
ma'am.  If  a  war  was  to  break  out  to-morrow,  what 
should  I  do?  His  regiment  would  be  ordered  out.  It 
is  sad  to  think  that  he  had  to  enlist.  But,  as  he  said, 
he  couldn't  go  on  living  on  me  any  longer.  Poor 
boy!  .  .  .  We  must  keep  on  working,  doing  the  best 
we  can  for  them.  There  are  all  sorts  of  chances,  and 
we  can  only  pray  that  God  may  spare  them." 

**Yes,  Esther,  that's  all  we  can  do.  Work  on,  work 
on  to  the  end.  .  .  .  But  your  boy  is  coming  to  see 
you  to-day." 

"Yes,  ma'am,  he'll  be  here  by  twelve  o'clock." 

"You're  luckier  than  I  am.  I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever 
see  my  boy  again. '  * 

"Yes,  ma'am,  of  course  you  will.  He'll  come  back  to 
you  right  enough  one  of  these  days.  There's  a  good 
time  coming;  that's  what  I  always  says.  .  .  .  And 
now  I've  got  work  to  do  in  the  house.  Are  you  going 
to  stop  here,  or  are  you  coming  in  with  me?  It'll  do 
you  no  good  standing  about  in  the  wet  clay. 

Mrs.  Barfield  smiled  and  nodded,  and  Esther  paused 
at  the  broken  gate  to  watch  her  mistress,  who  stood 
superintending  the  clearing  away  of  ten  years'  growth 
of  weeds,  as  much  interested  in  the  prospect  of  a  few 
peas  and  cabbages  as  in  former  days  she  had  been  in 
the  culture  of  expensive  flowers.  She  stood  on  what 
remained  of  a  gravel  walk,  the  heavy  clay  clinging  to 


ESTHER     WATERS  507 

her  boots,  watching  Jim  piling  weeds  upon  his  barrow. 
Would  he  be  able  to  finish  the  plot  of  ground  by  the 
end  of  the  week?  What  should  they  do  with  that  great 
walnut-tree?  Nothing  would  grow  underneath  it. 
Jim  was  afraid  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  cut  it 
down  and  remove  it  without  help.  Mrs.  Barfield  sug- 
gested sawing  away  some  of  the  branches,  but  Jim  was 
not  sure  that  the  expedient  would  prove  of  much  avail. 
In  his  opinion  the  tree  took  all  the  goodness  out  of  the 
soil,  and  that  while  it  stood  they  could  not  expect  a 
very  great  show  of  vegetables.  Mrs.  Barfield  asked  if 
the  sale  of  the  tree  trunk  would  indemnify  her  for  the 
cost  of  cutting  it  down.  Jim  paused  in  his  work,  and, 
leaning  on  his  spade,  considered  if  there  was  any  one  in 
the  town,  who,  for  the  sake  of  the  timber,  would  cut 
the  tree  down  and  take  it  away  for  nothing.  There 
ought  to  be  some  such  person  in  town;  if  it  came  to 
that,  Mrs.  Barfield  ought  to  receive  something  for  the 
tree.  Walnut  was  a  valuable  wood,  was  extensively 
used  by  cabinetmakers,  and  so  on,  until  Mrs.  Barfield 
begged  him  to  get  on  with  his  digging. 

At  twelve  o'clock  Esther  and  Mrs.  Barfield  walked 
out  on  the  lawn.  A  loud  wind  came  up  from  the  sea, 
and  it  shook  the  evergreens  as  if  it  were  angry  with 
them.  A  rook  carried  a  stick  to  the  tops  of  the  tall 
trees,  and  the  women  drew  their  cloaks  about  them. 
The  train  passed  across  the  vista,  and  the  women 
wondered  how  long  it  would  take  Jack  to  walk 
from  the  station.  Then  another  rook  stooped  to 
the  edge  of  the  plantation,  gathered  a  twig,  and 
carried  it  away.  The  wind  was  rough;  it  caught 
the  evergreens  underneath  and  blew  them  out  like 
umbrellas ;  the  grass  had  not  yet  begun  to  grow,  and 


5o8  ESTHER    WATERS 

the  grey  sea  harmonised  with  the  grey-green  land. 
The  women  waited  on  the  windy  lawn,  their  skirts 
blown  against  their  legs,  keeping  their  hats  on  with 
difficulty.  It  was  too  cold  for  standing  still.  They 
turned  a.rid  walked  a  few  steps  towards  the  house,  and 
then  looked  round. 

A  tall  soldier  came  through  the  gate.  He  wore  a 
long  red  cloak,  and  a  small  cap  jauntily  set  on  the  side 
of  his  close-clipped  head.  Esther  uttered  a  little 
exclamation,  and  ran  to  meet  him.  He  took  his 
mother  in  his  arms,  kissed  her,  and  they  walked 
towards  Mrs.  Barfield  together.  All  was  forgotten  in 
the  happiness  of  the  moment — the  long  fight  for  his 
life,  and  the  possibility  that  any  moment  might 
declare  him  to  be  mere  food  for  powder  and  shot.  She 
was  only  conscious  that  she  had  accomplished  her 
woman's  work — she  had  brought  him  up  to  man's 
estate;  and  that  was  her  sufficient  reward.  What  a 
fine  fellow  he  was!  She  did  not  know  he  was  so  hand- 
some, and  blushing  with  pleasure  and  pride  she 
glanced  shyly  at  him  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes  as 
she  introduced  him  to  her  mistress. 

"This  is  my  son,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Barfield  held  out  her  hand  to  the  young  soldier. 

"I  have  heard  a  great  "cleal  about  you  from  your 
mother." 

"And  I  of  you,  ma'am.  You've  been  very  kind  to 
my  mother.     I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you." 

And  in  silence  they  walked  towards  the  house, 


THE  END. 


5'>^ 


f^ 


\. 


V 


ETURN 


CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

202  Main  Library 


OAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 


I.ED  AFTER  7  DAYS 


-C-N  period:,  ARi  ^.K^^, 

RENEWALS.  CA^L  (^15>  642 

v^ADE  4  DAYS  PRIOR  TO  DUi  DATE 

''^.  A,\D  1-YEAR 

-3405 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

MOV    3  0  ''^^ 

^C  1  8  1993 

3Y 

utc '  ?  ^° 

J  V 

ClftClAATHDN 

tew. 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
ORM  NO.  DD6,  60m,  1/83  BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


H 


mil  III 


III!  |i 

llllllllli 


I 


CDElDfiliMDS 


X 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


